Burned Ends
by BlackLeatherRain
Summary: Years after she loses her Angel, a more mature Christine finds fulfillment and redemption in serving others in his memory.  Once she's learned to forgive herself, can she hope for forgiveness from her Angel?
1. Chapter 1

"Madamoiselle!"

Christine shifted uncomfortably in her sleep, the voice reaching into her mind from what seemed to be an eternity in the past.

"Madamoiselle, please!"

_The flames were hot against her face, even from a distance. An inferno worthy of Dante himself rose into the cold night sky, decimating Paris' winter chill with its molten core. Intricately designed leaded glass windows melted into slag, and thick stone walls blackened with soot as the fire that had started from a single, childish act rampaged through the inner workings of that fantastic realm she had once called home._

…_and so had He._

"_Madamoiselle! I will not ask again! You must step back, it is too dangerous here." The gendarme was coming dangerously close to laying his hands upon her, noting that his demands were not being heeded by the soiled vision in white that stood with her sweetheart before him. The young man that stood with her waved him off with a look of authority and annoyance that gave the officer pause._

"_Christine… sweetheart. It's over." Raoul's hand, still stained with the dirt and lichen that they had stumbled through in their mad flight from the house on the lake, rested on her shoulder in reassurance, but his touch sent a cold shiver through her body. "You're safe, now. It's done."_

_It _was_ done, after all, wasn't it? There was no going back – that bridge had been burned the moment she unmasked him before hundreds of Parisian nobility. She saw it in his eyes the moment she deftly slipped his disguise over his head – the fires of Hell awakening deep within his smoldering, furious vision. No turning back, no forgiveness, and certainly no second chances – not now. Her hand fluttered to her full red lips as her eyes began to water, the touch of her fingers cruelly mimicking the memory of the feel of His lips no more than an hour earlier. Her breath caught in her throat and the soot and grime that decorated her cheeks fell away beneath the tears that silently rolled down her face._

_No, she thought, it cannot end like this. I made a mistake – but I can make it right again. I know I can!_

"_Angel…" she whispered, her slippered foot stepping forward into the puddles of melting snow that lay between her and the door that would lead to the Underground, that would lead past the traps, into the grotto, over the lake, to the house and, finally, to her weeping angel. She could do this. She _had_ to._

_Christine had bounded a mere five steps towards that door and the inferno that towered above before she was caught around the waist by her lover. It took every ounce of restraint that he and the gendarme could manage to drag the shrieking girl back from the mouth of Hell that lay before them, and it wasn't until the laudanum was forced down her throat that her sobs and struggles finally ceased._

"Madamoiselle Daae!"

She was being shaken awake, now – a welcome relief from this recurring vision that she wished she could dismiss as a mere dream. But, no – the memory lay as fresh after five years of absence from the Palais Garnier as it was the day she awoke at the de Chagny country estate under the careful watch of the de Chagny's personal physician. It took another three days of forced laudanum dosing to keep the girl compliant with the de Chagny's wishes – essentially, to stay put and stop trying to escape back to Paris. Christine groaned, and her body groaned with her as forced herself to sit up and open her eyes. A single tallow candle dimly illuminated the room and she looked at the girl who had awakened her. Staring back at her was a slight figure with skin twisted into a horrifying grimace on her right side, hair long lost on that side of her head, and her right eye nearly sealed shut with scarring. On the child's left side, long blonde hair was pulled back behind one shoulder and a single bright blue eye looked at Christine in worry.

Christine's hand reached out and touched the girl's heavily scarred, nearly skeletal, cheek in reassurance and felt the girl relax under her gentle caress. "What is it, Dinah? It's not even dawn yet."

Dinah, a mere thirteen years old but possessing a strength that Christine wasn't used to seeing except in the rare adult, picked up the candleholder and beckoned the older woman to the door. "It's Samuel, Madamoiselle. He's…" She cast her eyes down in sorrow momentarily before straightening back up and meeting Christine's gaze. "He's failing, Mistress."

Christine threw her summer robe on quickly, her lips set in a thin line as she nodded at the young woman who bore the news. There weren't any questions to ask, not now. Dinah led the way, favoring her right leg but moving masterfully down the hall, leading Christine to the end of the building. They were moving far away from the general barracks where the others slept in peace, a place Christine took those who would run the risk of waking the others with their stifled moans, their screams of pain, and their persistent, restless sobs. They were lucky this evening – the private ward was empty except for Samuel. Christine tried to push away the memories of the last denizen of this quiet room as she pushed through the door to see the small boy lying in his overstuffed cot. The visage of the squalling infant that she had nursed until it had ceased moving nearly two months prior was more than she could bear at the moment. She would remember the child later in the morning, after breakfast had been prepared and served and after the morning's medications had been distributed. She would light a taper in the small Chapel on site and remember those she had spent her time caring for, and those whom she had loved and lost.

For now, however, there was the matter of the writhing, pale boy that whimpered in agony as she approached. The past few days he had made his throat raw with screaming between the times that the laudanum had knocked him back into unconsciousness. Christine knelt next to the cot, her dingy white shift pooling around her knees as she tenderly stroked the boy's forehead and murmured soft reassurances. His skin was hot to the touch, and she sighed. Dinah was right to have summoned here. Experience told Christine he had no more than a few hours to live, and would likely not see the next rays of the sun enter the room.

Christine turned back to the girl who looked on with one wide and compassionate eye and shook her head. "Go sleep, Dinah." When she opened her mouth to protest, Christine held up one hand and closed her eyes. "Please go back to bed. I may be up all night, and I will need you ready to prepare breakfast if I am still occupied here." Dinah had been caring for Samuel for as long as Christine had, since he'd arrived at the Angel Care Center two weeks prior – beaten, burned and nearly killed by a drunken stepfather who saw the nine year old lad as competition for his wife's attentions. It was not the first time since she'd left her life of relative privilege that Christine had seen this level of cruelty passed from adult to child, and she doubted it would be the last. However, Dinah was still young and despite the hard life she'd experienced, Christine still did her best to shelter the girl from the realities of death and dying. "I will tell him that you were looking after him, Dinah, I promise. He won't pass without knowing that you care."

Dinah's lower lip quivered in response, and her one bright eye sparkled with newly forming tears before she finally nodded and offered a small bow in response, not trusting herself to speak. Christine reached out to the girl and pulled her close, pressing her head to the girl's hip as she wrapped one strong arm around her in reassurance. "You've done well. Thank you."

With a hiccupped, hidden sob, the girl nodded once again and broke free, leaving more quickly than necessary. Christine heard the telltale sounds of a girl's heart breaking as she moved with a hitched gait down the hallway, and she sighed. She recognized the sound – God knows she'd made the same plaintive, instinctive music in the months (years?) after her father's death.

Christine turned back towards the boy who laid before her, his breath coming in rapid spurts and eyes clenched in agony. Picking up the nearby washbasin filled with clean, cool, water, she set to work. Pulling the white linens away from the boy's body, she pulled off the previous washcloths that had been placed over his burned torso and arm and set them aside. Blinking her tears away, she dipped fresh cloths in the cool water and laid them gently over the boy's skin, noticing him flinch in response before his breathing slowed once again. Dipping another cloth into the water, she used it to stroke the child's forehead and cheeks, wiping away the perspiration there as she quietly sang to the boy who had been left in her tender care.

"_Moonlight slumbers in your heart, a gentle summer moonlight –  
><em>_And to escape the cares of life, I shall drown myself in your light.  
><em>_I will forget past sorrows, my sweet, when you cradle  
><em>_My sad heart and my thoughts in the loving calm of your arms.  
><em>_You will rest my poor head, ah! Sometimes on your lap,  
><em>_And recite to it a ballad that will see to speak of us;  
><em>_And from your eyes full of sorrow, from your eyes I shall drink  
><em>_So many kisses and so much love that perhaps I shall be healed."_

"_You sing beautifully, Madamoiselle."_

_Christine whirled around, clutching her shawl to her in scant protection against the darkness that surrounded her on the roof of the opera house. The vision of her father that she had held so close to her heart as she sang the folk tune he'd taught her vanished in a fearful instant. There was no one to be seen. She was alone._

"_Announce yourself, Monsieur!" she called out with what she thought would sound like bravery, although she suspected she sounded just as afraid as she felt. "It is hardly appropriate to surprise an unaccompanied woman in such a way." At sixteen years old, she had hesitated to refer to herself as such, but the level of vulnerability she was experiencing prompted her to aggrandize her own status just a bit. Her rich brown eyes darted across the roof of the building, looking for telltale shadows or even steps in the newly fallen snow besides her own, and found that there were none to be seen. She swallowed nervously._

"_Ah yes, what was I thinking?" the rich tenor responded with obvious amusement. "A thousand pardons, my _lady_." The voice played with the word, caressing it simply but pointedly, demonstrating to her that he was willing to play the game as well as she. "I simply could not pass by without remarking on such a sweet and angelic sound. Tell me, where did you learn this tune? It's not often a _woman_ of your age grasps such texts so beautifully."_

_Christine's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "My father taught it to me," she retorted, "and he taught me well."_

"_That he did," the voice agreed with no hint of amusement. "May I ask if he still tutors you in the art of Music, then?"_

_She opened her mouth to speak, her annoyance blown away with the wind and the fresh wound of her father's loss just months before, when she was thrust into this alien city in a towering and intimidating complex and her mother's lessons in ballet called forth by a demanding and strict instructor – dance, and dance _well_, or find yourself abandoned as an orphan. The response stuck in her throat and the tears came as a surprise to her, as did the sobs that almost immediately followed. Christine wrapped one hand around herself in comfort as the other clamped over her face, hiding her twisted visage from the mysterious stranger whose queries had prompted this rare outburst of the pain she'd fought so valiantly to keep contained._

"_Mon ange…" the voice came from behind her now, close enough that she could nearly feel the heat of its source at her back, but she didn't bother to turn around. Surrendering to her grief, she could not bear to have the voice see her in this state and the part of her that remained aware of her surroundings was happy to know he was situated behind her. "…I did not mean to upset you, child. Please forgive me."_

_She shook her head, more violently than she'd intended to, and was grateful when the presence gave her plenty of time to recover. Taking a shuddering breath, she sighed, releasing the pain into Paris' night sky. "My father is gone," she whispered. "I am alone. The ballet mistress was a friend of my mother's and has given me one season to prove myself worthy of the Opera Populaire. I…" she hung her head in defeat, eyes closed and stinging with tears that threatened to fall once again. "I am alone… and I am frightened, and so I sing to my father, because it's all I know to do."_

_The sound came from behind her at first – a dark and rich tenor note vibrating from a heavenly organ, moving around her to envelop the entire roof of the opera house, and Christine gasped as her eyes flew open. The melody of the thrumming voice, wordlessly caressing her with an old Swedish hymn that she hadn't heard since before her mother died, before her father left their homeland with the pain of a man who had lost his true love and needed to forget everything about his past. The voice soared like an eagle on the wing – majestic and proud – but the timbre of the sound surrounded her in warmth and comfort. It moved effortlessly through the melody of the song, the hummed line in a legato dance through the air reminiscent of her father on his violin. This was not just music – this was genius, a gift of God, something that reached into her soul and filled not only the void that her father left, but a void that she didn't even know was there. New tears glistened in her eyes, unaccompanied by sorrow, as the pure joy of Music grasped her soul and pulled it into a waltz worthy of Heaven._

_Christine's breath came in great, shuddering waves as the song ended and she looked about her with new eyes, her red-rimmed eyes taking in the night in amazement. The voice finally commented, "You enjoy that."_

_It wasn't a question. There could be no question, and what answer do you give to such a question? To say that she enjoyed that would be to say that a fish enjoys water, that a plant enjoys the sun. That sound, once experienced, was something she didn't think she could ever live without. Mutely, she nodded in response._

"_I know you, Christine Daae. Your father, Gustave, left you far too soon, but he left behind a promise to send an Angel to your side to guide you into your future."_

_Christine swallowed heavily in shock, unsure of how the voice could possibly have known her name or her father's promise to her on his death bed. Once again, she nodded in response to the voice that had reached into her mind and soul, unable to formulate a proper response in her young mind._

"_I would like to be that Angel for you, Christine. Would you accept me as your Angel of Music?"_

_Finally, Christine could find her voice. There was no answer other than what spilled out from her mouth. There were no other options. "Yes, Monsieur. You are mon ange de musique."_

At 4:30 on a warm Parisian summer morning, a boy named Samuel succumbed to the injuries of the fire that had consumed his flesh after his drunken stepfather threw a glass of bourbon onto the boy's clothes, and then set him aflame. His last lucid thoughts were of an Angel kneeling near his head, looking at him with unconditional tenderness and love, singing him softly into the arms of eternity – his Angel of Death.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Thank you to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed! Special shout outs to whomever is reading from Malta, because I love FanFiction's ability to see what countries are reading along. In the last chapter, Christine's song to Samuel and to her father is a French folk song known as _Chanson Triste_, and the lyrics there are an English translation of the original French.

* * *

><p>Rain fell upon the streets of Paris the next morning, coating the grey streets in a shimmering gossamer of running rivulets and streams into the Underground lurking below. Men walked briskly in the warm rain, hats firmly upon their heads and light overcoats steadily drenched by the life-giving waters that fell from the heavens above. The women of the nobility were nowhere to be seen, preferring to make their way through the streets of Paris by coach and carriage in such weather, as to avoid ruining their sueded leather boots and fine silk skirts in the healing waters that pooled on the cobbled streets. Women who had not the time, the family ties, nor the wedded ties to Parisian nobility and who were forced to spend their days laboring after their own children or in any of the city's lower class professions suitable for the gentler sex did not have the good fortune to languish at home in such weather. They clutched drenched shawls across their shoulders, wide-brimmed hats or kerchiefs planted firmly upon sensible heads as they made their way to their next errand.<p>

Christine took a rare moment of reflection that morning to watch the rain fall on the street below after the day's medicines had been distributed to the center's residents. From her second story room, she could watch the bustling of the people below in the low light of the overcast day. The rain was just heavy enough today to allow her to see the splashes of the individual raindrops in the puddles, and she smiled wistfully as she remembered watching storms with her father, and the rain dancing on the streets. He would play a lively tune as she imagined the rain stepping in time to her father's impromptu music, each drop appearing like a crystal-clear butterfly. The overall effect in the greatest of storms was a legion of beautiful clear fantasy creatures dancing merrily in time to the music emerging from her father's weathered instrument. In the corners of her memory, she could hear a slower tune playing – a lullaby to the lazy rain outside of her window. The music, carried on the winds of remembrance of her father's violin, was sweet and comforting and she closed her eyes and sighed softly, allowing herself to briefly wander in the past. The refrains and the melodies drawn from her father's imagination entwined themselves within her thoughts, lending his warmth and his love to her in strength from beyond, and her smile grew in response, her arms wrapping around herself as she remembered his twinkling eyes, his loving embrace. The tune changed in the recesses of her mind, her father's melodies twisting in a slightly different direction, a more masterful, assured dance within the melody – leaping arpeggios giving way to hauntingly melodic modal systems that grasped at the soul. The music inspired, it tormented, it soared, and it terrified. His music. His melodies. His presence…

Christine shook her head, clearing the experience from her mind with practiced determination, and stepped away from the window, the memory, and the vision. It had taken years, but she had come to terms with the fact that she was alone in this world, and she had long since learned to forbid herself from succumbing to the stifling loneliness that threatened to overtake her. There was too much to do to wallow in regret and self pity. Running her hands back over the pile of hair atop her head, tied back tightly into a knot at the nape of her neck, she found herself satisfied that she was in order, and she went back downstairs to complete her tasks.

This morning, the chaplain had arrived shortly after he had been summoned at first morning light, and Samuel's last rites were offered post mortem with Christine and Dinah standing by, their hands entwined as the two looked at the frail body hiding beneath the clean linen sheet that separated Samuel's earthen form from the cruel realities of the world that surrounded them. When Christine sensed Dinah trembling next to her, she released the girl's hand, wrapping her arm gently around Dinah's shoulders and pulling her close, dabbing at the corner of her own eye with a handkerchief as she willed her own emotions to stay in check. Shortly thereafter, Samuel was placed in a small, plain pine box by two gruff men who took the time to show great care in their actions only upon receiving a look as cold as ice from Christine when she had determined they were showing less than enough respect for the deceased. Arrangements were made for the child's burial, and Christine sent notification with the two mortician's assistants to meet at the graveyard the next evening for Samuel's burial.

Christine considered the plot of land that had been gifted to the center when she encountered her first lost soul just over four years ago, and frowned. They had been spared a large number of deaths this year, but that didn't change the fact that the plot was nearly full, and their coffers were not. She sighed heavily. Once again, it was time to head out into the upper echelons of society to extend her alms bowl and hope that she could bring enough back to keep things afloat a little longer. She silently thanked her father for her frugal upbringing – a life of warmth and joy, but not what anyone would call _plenty_. It was sufficient preparation for managing a center like this – donations from the aristocracy were few, and they primarily existed due to her brief notoriety in the _Opera Populaire_, and the scandals that surrounded and followed her there. Christine had to learn early and well how to stretch a Franc as far as it would go – negotiation became a daily practice early on, with creditors, grocers, physicians and even morticians. With years of practice under her belt, the subtle manipulations she performed on a regular basis had become masterful. Madame Giry and even her Angel would have been proud, had they lived to see her today. It was their practice of backroom intricacies and shadow exploitation that inspired Christine when it came to dealing with the men and women who had seen her as no more than a paper doll on stage. The girl who had once existed merely for their amusement now knew enough about each of them through backstage and public gossip to play their needs off of each other to her own ends. Madame Girard? So good to see you. Yes, Mssr. Niklaus was asking after you last week during our visit together. Why yes, I did happen to see Madamoiselle Chaus skulking about outside again – isn't that just _scandalous_? Why _yes_, I'll deliver that message – thank you so much for your kind donation.

The morning's activities were rote at this point - once breakfast and medications had been distributed to the children, the rest of the morning was spent in private tutelage, with older children teaching their younger fellows basic arithmetic, penmanship, and reading. Christine looked in on the eight children who were left in her care at the present - three had been turned over by their parents because the extent of their injuries were such that their parents were unable to care for them, but they would return as soon as they could make it through their daily activities without pain and without the need for constant care. Pol was recovering well. At ten years of age, he was run over by a carriage in the streets of the city by a member of the aristocracy whose coachman hadn't bothered to stop and check to see what damage had been caused. He was first taken to the hospital, and then Christine was contacted once his leg had been amputated to allow him to convalesce in peace during the healing process. He was a bright child, and took to his letters and numbers surprisingly well, given that his parents were unable to offer him a formal education at all. Pol was beginning to reach a point where Christine could see that his pain management was going to be over soon, and his mastery of movement despite his lost appendage would combine to allow him to return home to his parents in the coming weeks. His mother and little sister visited regularly, at least twice a week, and she knew that he was eager to return home.

Joaquin was the oldest of the bunch – sullen and angry at the turn his life had taken when his family's farm, located just outside of the city proper, had suffered from a catastrophic loss when lightening struck the dry roof of the barn, setting it ablaze. At fifteen years old, Joaquin had rushed into the barn with his father and older brother in a desperate attempt to at least save the animals that had been sheltered that evening. Only one goat and one dairy cow had survived the blaze – the remainder of the numerous animals were consumed in the blaze, along with the family's stores of grain for the coming year. In his rush to pull his favorite stallion out of its stall and into the clear, fresh air outside, the boy had been knocked back into a pile of burning straw by the panicked beast. His last memory of that night was the look of horror on his father's face as he saw his youngest son flying back into the wall of flaming bales of hay. This was a month ago, and he was told that his father was recovering quickly from the burns that covered his hands and forearms that resulted from dragging his son out of the inferno and to safety. Christine's heart broke as she watched Joaquin from a distance, the brooding boy's countenance familiar to her in the faces of the older children she'd tended to before, and in the countenance of the Angel she'd lost years ago. Joaquin was still in the stage of recovery that required constant monitoring of his pain levels, and frequent dressing changes, which caused him no end of embarrassment and annoyance – something he was happy to take out on his caregivers.

Catherine was seven, and had made the terrible mistake of pulling at the handle of a pot of boiling water in the kitchen while her mother's back was turned. Her burns spread across her right shoulder, and down her back and torso. For such a young age, she was quiet and very pensive. Christine assumed this was due to the trauma, as the girl had spent months on end under constant pain management, and this was after weeks of intense care by Christine and her hired physicians to keep the girl breathing. Christine considered the quiet little child a bit of a miracle, and did not hesitate to tell her wide-eyed, terrified parents this fact when they first saw the girl, now thoroughly scarred and discolored from the accident, toddle towards them from her cot.

The other temporary residents – Maria (attacked by a scavenging mongrel while she, too, was scavenging the back alleys for food), Thaddeus (dumped at a convent in the local countryside with a concussion and multiple broken bones), Philippe and Musette (abandoned at clinics weeks apart from each other, their injuries suggesting long-term neglect and recent brutality) – were essentially wards of the state in her care. Orphaned, abandoned, or actively abused by their parents, Christine often ended up with these babes in her arms after gendarmes would find them alone in the streets or when local clinics would call upon her after their guardians would bring them in for treatment, and leave them behind without a word. The gendarmes and even the clinic workers would often refer to them as Christine's _strays_, but in the dark of the night when these children would whimper from the pain of their wounds and the loss of the life they'd known before, she would whisper words of love and comfort to them, her fingers gently caressing skin marred and unmarred alike, and would tell them that they were her little lost angels.

Christine's lost angels typically did not stay lost for long – in the worst cases, as with Samuel, their wounds were so far gone or their trauma so severe that they stayed with her for little more than a couple of months before the succumbed to eternity. In the best cases, their scarring was hidden well enough beneath clothing to allow them some semblance of normalcy in society, allowing them to be adopted out or, in the case of the older children, placed into positions in local households to work as maids, attendants, and servants. She had been fortunate that of those who survived their injuries, there was only one of her angels that didn't fall into that category – strong enough to survive catastrophic injury, and scarred enough to be shunned by the whole of Parisian society.

Ah, Dinah. As Christine tidied the study room and observed the children at their studies, occasionally checking in to make corrections to grammar or to provide feedback to the older children's studies, her eyes would flit to Dinah's willowy form. Christine had often wondered as she looked at Dinah what she would have become, had the tragic fire that had claimed her parents and half of her own body never occurred. The part of her body that could be considered whole was resplendent with classical beauty – long, lush waves of blonde hair that shimmered like cornsilk, eyes that captured the changing blues of the ocean tides, skin pale and flawless. She often marveled at just how much the young girl reminded her of Meg at her age – lithe and beautiful. Christine wondered if Dinah had carried that same dancer's grace before her injuries stole even her gait.

When the clinic had begged Dinah into Christine's care, it was intended as a grace of hospice rather than convalescent care. With half of her body covered in severe burns, there was not one person – including Christine – that had believed Dinah would survive. Dinah had received one visitor while in the care center, weeks into her recovery when every night was a guessing game about whether she would survive to recognize the next morning's light. With both parents dead in the fire and no siblings to speak of, it fell upon the girl's great aunt to tend to the estate. The severe woman who had arrived that day to speak to Christine and to see her great niece had taken one look at the piteous creature that lay on the overstuffed cot in the special care room, and turned to Christine. She held out a small bag of coins with a frown, and shook her head in disgust. With the small red velvet pouch in her hands, mouth open in shock and horror as the older woman left without a word, Christine's gaze lay on the young woman that struggled for life before her, and wept.

Dinah rallied nearly two weeks after that, her body purging itself of any lingering infection and her wounds slowly healing over. The process ravaged her body, twisting once porcelain skin into gnarled, angry, red scars and pulling her limbs tight against themselves. With the help of her local physicians, she worked to keep the girl's arm and leg from healing in a way that would render them useless once she fully covered. When Dinah's eyes finally opened on a cool Fall morning and Christine saw confusion and recognition alike in the wide blue expanse, she held her emotions in check as she comforted the young woman in her realizations and grief. Now, nearly a year later, Dinah had become indispensible to Christine – no longer a mere lost angel, she took her inspiration from the older woman and worked diligently to mimic her every movement of care and tenderness. The girl did her best to avoid showing weakness, despite Christine's efforts to offer her support and acceptance, and she respected the child for her strength.

"_She'll be a formidable woman when she matures."_

"_Absolutely not! Another mouth to feed, Giry?" The rich baritone voice rang out from the wide space beneath the heavy oaken door, tickling Christine's ear as the girl did her best to sit still, her stomach in knots as she sat on the bench outside the door, the entirety of her worldly possessions shoved into a small tapestry bag at her feet. She swallowed heavily and fought to maintain her composure in this grand and frightening place. "Confound it, woman! The ballet corps is already full to overflowing with your little rats, and you want to add another charity case to the mix? I won't have it."_

_Christine heard the unmistakable sound of the Ballet's Headmistress' cane slamming onto the wooden floor with undeniable authority. "The very _last_ thing I am seeking here is _permission_, Monsieur Lefevre. The corps is my realm, my responsibility, and I will run it as I see fit – unless, of course, you wish to find a new headmistress to cater to your ridiculous demands and run the risk of earning the ire of the Opera gh…"_

"_Enough! We do not speak of this," the man interjected, his voice low and sounding in a panicked whisper. "You know this! He hears all."_

_There was a pause in which Christine could hear the sound of her own heartbeat, and she found herself leaning ever closer to the door behind which her fate patiently waited. "Indeed," Giry's voice sounded, the smug triumph muted only with the practiced propriety of a woman who knew exactly how to get what she needed from those who considered themselves her betters. "He does. You would do well to remember this." Christine heard the rustling of the stiff fabric of Madame Giry's layers of stiff black fabric as the woman rose from the chair in which she had been sitting. "Now, if you would please, Monsieur Lefevre. Madamoiselle Daae and I have had a long journey, and I wish to get her settled in before I retire for the evening."_

_The manager's sigh carried the burden of ten men and Christine could hear him as he walked from behind his desk to lead the Headmistress from his office. "Of course, of course. I'll ensure Monsieur Boucher has a fresh cot set up in the dormitories, and the kitchen is open for your use." The door to the office swung open, and Christine sat up with a start, her back ramrod straight as she stared straight ahead at the mahogany paneling decorating the other side of the hallway. Mme. Giry stepped through the door with a bearing worthy of royalty, and stopped just long enough to look down at the anxious girl to give her a quick nod. Turning on her heel, she faced the opera's sole manager and inclined forward slightly, her back remaining perfectly poised as she extended a gloved hand to the man before her. "It has been a pleasure, M. Lefevre, as always."_

"_Indeed, Madame, indeed. I bid you a good evening." The man who glanced down briefly at the brunette who stood in threadbare traveling clothes, flush with the blooms of youth and anxiety alike, seemed old beyond his mere fifty years. He frowned slightly as he looked upon the girl and then gave her a curt nod before taking the older woman's hand and brushing his lips just above the back of her glove. Giry did not bother to watch him return to his office, but instead withdrew her hand and motioned briskly with her head for the girl to follow. They were nearly out of earshot before Christine could just hear the man mutter, "I am far too old for this."_

_Already weary from the amount of traveling she had already completed that day with Mme. Giry, and emotionally numb from the past few days of standing at her father's deathbed, then at his casket, and finally at his freshly dug gravesite with a severe-looking woman in black who claimed her father had made arrangements for her to move to Paris weeks before his death, Christine could only follow along mutely behind her new guardian. Surrounded by the intricacies of the inner workings of Europe's premier opera house, she could only find herself examining the soiled hem of Giry's dress, the mud and dust from a wet French Autumn desperately clinging to the black velvet. Christine briefly wondered if Giry's hem smelled like fallen leaves, and then found herself wondering about her own gown. Her reverie was so complete, her gaze so introspective that it wasn't until after they had eaten and she was standing at the door to the ballet dormitories that she realized where she had arrived. She looked at the door before her, the sound of dozens of tittering young girls muffled from behind the heavy door. Christine felt a pressure on her chin just a moment before her face was firmly turned up and to the side, forcing her to meet the older woman's amber gaze._

"_This is the ballet dormitory, Christine. The girls beyond this door are your equals, and do not allow any of them to convince you of anything different. Every one of you is here to _work_ and to _learn_. Your mother excelled here, and so will you. Those who do not excel will find _other_ work." The eyes narrowed as the headmistress scrutinized the young woman before her. "Do you understand what I am telling you?"_

_Christine swallowed and nodded in assent, her stomach gripping with fear around the dinner she'd just consumed. She found herself suddenly wishing she hadn't eaten so very much downstairs._

"_Good. Come meet your fellows, girl." With this, Giry threw the door open and stepped through, her skirts sweeping behind her and her presence instantly filling the room beyond. Christine could not help but to notice that the girls, who were in most every state of dress and undress and participating in a variety of activities, all stood up straight when their headmistress appeared in the room. Eyes bright and wide, each of them in what Christine vaguely remembered as the _first position_ from her mother's lessons in her youth – their backs straight, heads up and attentive, arms curled gently before them and feet splayed out to the sides, ankles together. Self-consciously, she found her own ankles drawing together and back straightening as she stood in the hallway._

"_Madamoiselles, come and meet your newest colleague…"_

"Christine Daae! What a fantastic surprise." The prim and proper woman that stood before her had been one of the first patrons of Christine's care center – a friend of the de Chagnys, and a long-standing patron of the arts in Paris. The woman came from old money, and married into older money. When her husband passed, she found herself flush with funds, and no children to dote upon. She was always one of Christine's first stops as she made her rounds for the care center. A visit into this empty yet welcoming household always lifted the young woman's spirits and gave her hope for her coming visits.

"Marguerite!" Christine stepped forward, hands extended to accept her hostess' dainty fingers, which she gently grasped as the women exchanged feather-light kisses to their cheeks. "You are radiant, as always."

"You flatter me, dear child – thank you. You, however, continue to be far, far too thin." Marguerite's hand fluttered to Christine's cheek as the woman blushed in embarrassment. Christine was aware that her hostess knew that when the coffers were empty, Christine's own needs always fell secondary to the needs of her angels. "You have lost weight, haven't you, girl? You must stop this martyrdom, Christine. Come. We will sup – I will have Andre prepare us a light lunch, and you will eat your fill. No, no!" she exclaimed as Christine attempted to protest, "You know better, child! Now come, and tell me of your little lost angels."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_Author's Note: Since I'm not a great proofreader of my own materials, I'm finding some issues in what I've published in the past two chapters. For those of you who have subscribed - if you see these chapters reappear in your notifications, it's because I'm correcting silly mistakes that I know better than to make._

_Country hello of the day: Hello to my visitor from Honduras. I once visited Tegucigalpa. The mountains in that area are just stunning, and flying in is absolutely terrifying. Note to my reviewers: Thank you all so much for your kind words and your encouragement! You have no idea how motivating it is to get your feedback, so thank you for keeping me on my toes._

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><p>Christine returned to the clinic that evening a bit lighter in her step. The rains had passed, leaving behind an oppressive kind of humidity. However, given the amount of support she'd been offered from various patrons combined with leads to new sponsors and professionals, the warmth that pressed upon her as she walked the streets ofParisin the late afternoon rays did naught but brighten her mood further. Marguerite, as expected, was the first to pledge to continue her support of the center. Her donation would easily add another two months to meet the center's current expense needs, the other patrons she'd visited that afternoon another three combined. This left the issue of the burial plot, which she would like to see expanded. Unfortunately, that would require a very sensitive conversation with the original donors, and some very uncomfortable conversing with the family who still held that large portion of the cemetery. However, all of that could wait until tomorrow.<p>

Stepping into the foyer of the center and out of the bustling summer heat, Christine was greeted by a squeal and a small form rushing to hide itself behind her. Musette busily buried herself within the skirts of Christine's gown, doing her best to pretend that she was naught but part of the woman's clothing while Pol rushed up as fast as his crutches would carry him. Christine had to admit - that was indeed getting quite fast.

Turning to the toddler who giggled and squealed as Christine picked her up, she placed the cherub on one hip with a bright smile and planted a warm kiss on the girl's nose. "...and just what trouble have you been getting yourself into, young lady?" Musette giggled merrily, hiding her face behind chubby hands - one a bright and healthy pink and the other blotched in red and white. Christine covered the girl's hands in rapid-fire kisses while Pol exclaimed, "We were playing hide and seek! She's it, now - I've caught her!"

Christine smiled at the beaming young lad and shifted Musette's growing weight on her hip, saying, "Then I imagine you may want to go hide yourself, young man. I have a feeling our little Musette is _very_ good at seeking." She winked at the girl as Pol rushed away as fast as his crutches would take him, and set her back down on the floor after planting another kiss on her forehead.

She spotted Dinah as she made her way to her own small room to change in order to prepare dinner. "They didn't give you any problems while I was gone, did they, Dinah?"

"No, Mistress. The young ones have been playing most of the day, and they've been find. Joaquin, however, has not wanted to take any more medicine today." Dinah frowned, the memory of her own pain and recovery echoing in her concerned gaze. "I know he's hurting, Madamoiselle, but he won't listen to me."

Christine sighed and nodded. "Start cutting the vegetables, then, my dear. I will go speak to Joaquin and will be in shortly to help you finish preparing dinner." This wasn't the first time Joaquin was resistant to his care, and Christine could understand his issues, in part. It was embarrassing for a young man to need such attention, certainly, but moreover she knew from experience that the Laudanum would deaden him to the world around him. It was no way to live, spending your days in a dark haze, unaware of the passage of time and unable to think for one's self. However, it was similarly unreasonable to spend your days in pain and torment.

"Joaquin?" Christine entered the boys' quarters and saw the young man resting as was typical for him - on his stomach, head cradled in his arms to take as much painful pressure as he could off of the mass of healing burns on his back and shoulder.

The lad didn't even look up. From within the folds of his arms, she could hear him mutter, "Did _she_ send you in here? I'm done with this. All of it. I'm ready to go home. Mom and Dad need help, and I'm sick of being your pet invalid."

Christine pursed her lips and picked up a small chair near the door to bring over near the head of Joaquin's cot, and set it there carefully. Leaning forward, she fought the urge to settle a reassuring hand on his arm, knowing from experience that this would only make his mood darker. "Joaquin, you know that you're not ready to return home just yet. You have a lot of healing left to do. If you don't receive your daily treatments, you run the risk of infection." She sighed and gave in to her instinct, her fingers resting light as a butterfly in his elbow, and was satisfied when he shifted in response, but did not shrink away. "I know it hurts, and I know you're frustrated, but you have to trust me and trust the doctors. You're healing, and that's a _very_ good thing, but you're not out of the woods yet. We cannot send you to your parents while you still run the risk of furthering your injury, no matter how much you want to go and how much they want to see you."

She heard him mutter in response, his words muffled into the bulk of his pillow. "What was that, Joaquin?"

For the first time, he raised his face to look up into hers in defiance and she could see the tell-tale signs of the boy's grief in his wet, red-rimmed eyes. "You assume they want anything to do with me. They haven't seen the full impact of the fire on my body." His eyes looked her from head to toe in a cruelly appraising manner. "You have no idea what it's like to be _marked_ like this. You won't even let me _see_ what has happened to me. I'm going to be deformed for the rest of my life. I will never know a normal life, and you will never know what that means."

She sat back, her rich brown eyes consumed with pity for the boy who was glowering back up at her. "No," she whispered, "You're right. I won't. But, I once loved someone who did."

_"Well, why don't you tell me about it?"_

_"Raoul, please... isn't it enough that we're here, together?" Christine nervously fingered the glittering diamond ring that had been delicately strung along a fine gold chain around her neck._

_"Forgive me, love, but I simply cannot fathom why you insist on keeping this a secret. You're to be the future Vicomtesse de..."_

_Christine's manicured fingers hurriedly found Raoul's lips, pressing them gently as she stepped close to him. "Raoul!"_

_Raoul's lips curled behind her fingers as his eyes softened and he reached up to take her hand in his, kissing the back of it gently, then turning it so he could graze his lips against her palm. "Christine," he murmured, flicking his tongue against her inner wrist and following it with the warmth of his perfectly shaped lips, "what are you afraid of?"_

_Christine gasped at the intimate touch against her sensitive skin, and gingerly took her hand back from him, looking about nervously in the corridor leading to the grand foyer to the opera house. Daintily, she moved to straighten the many layers of crinoline in her exquisite white and pink gown, and her hand flitted back to her neck instinctively, fondling the ring that lay there against the bare skin of her chest. "Raoul, I'm sorry..."_

_The Vicomte's warm hands found Christine's shoulders, and he squeezed them gently in reassurance. "I won't argue with you, sweet one. I've waited this long for you. I trust that you will help me understand in time."_

_The newly engaged couple emerged at the top of the staircase in the grand foyer, to be announced by the host of the Ball Masque not with their titles, but rather as their costumed personas.__ Christine looked around her, astounded by the excess and glamour of the event as men and women alike moved through the opulent foyer in resplendent costumes reflecting every color found in nature, and more than a few whose origin lay in the glorious dreams of the men and women who had dyed them. As the two lovers made their way down the grand staircase, Christine's eyes darted about in wonder behind the bejeweled mask that Raoul had made especially for her. A blush of pink was faintly perceptible behind the body of clear white crystals, and her eyes were darkly outlined in kohl to merge seamlessly into the black crystals outlining the eyelets of the mask. Feathers trailed in long tendrils down the side of the mask, fluttering against her dark curls and the glittering gems that had been set to demurely hold back her rich locks. As graceful as the swan she sought to emulate, she glided down the stairs on Raoul's arm, who descended regally beside her in military garb, his own mask severe and demanding and heavily decorated in the fashion of a great golden eagle._

_Once the couple reached the floor of the foyer, they were both swept into the flow of the event, and Christine lost herself in the headiness of the wine, the music and the frivolity. Gone were the fears of the past year, the trepidation of her engagement to the Vicomte, the terror that accompanied the thought of performing on stage again under His watchful gaze. Here, anonymous in the crowd of Paris' elite, surrounded by joy and splendor, Christine could finally pretend that all was as it could be – that she was just another young woman, lost in love and surrendering herself to what life had to offer. Raoul could see the change as the two of them spun on the dance floor, the wine and the romanticism of the evening winding itself into his head just as surely as it was commandeering hers. In the midst of the dance, surrounded by the glory of the costumed revelers that spun about them, he stopped and cupped his gloved hand to her warm, flushed cheek. Bright brown eyes glittered in response and they leaned together, lips brushing together tentatively in a chaste caress before both succumbed to the moment and entwined into each other's arms with an eagerness known only to the young._

_It wasn't until the kiss was broken and Christine gazed up at her childhood friend in wonder that both of them had noticed the room had gone silent and still. Breaking their close embrace, the young lovers looked about in confusion, Christine's cheeks flushing with excitement and a taste of guilt before her eyes fell on what had silenced the partygoers who had surrounded them – at the top of the stairs a commanding figure stood and cast a slow and steady gaze across the whole of the crowd, sweeping from left to right. Dressed in rich red velvets and loosely draped in what appeared to be a blood-soaked burial shroud, the masked figure took three slow and deliberate steps towards the crowd, his gait stiff and unyielding as the corpse his carefully and grotesquely crafted masque portrayed. Christine's ears rang as the blood rushed to her head. There was only one being who would – who _could_ – attend in such a way. From what seemed like an impossible distance away, she could hear the noises of horror and disgust from the attendees around her, and the sound of at least one reveler get sick in revulsion._

_Echoing in the newly silenced hall, a familiar dark laugh cruelly caressed the ears of each attendee. "Why so silent, Madames et Messieurs? Did you truly believe you were rid of your Opera Ghost? Have you not _missed_ my charming presence?" With this comment, Christine could feel the undeniable flicker of heat of his gaze lightly caress her face before he moved back to sweep the fire of his eyes across the crowd once more. "I bring you a gift on this night of revelry."_

_Reaching to his side, Christine's dark angel unsheathed a wicked and gleaming sword and pointed it menacingly to two cowering figures to his right. Taking a step forward, he unmasked each of them with two quick flicks of his wrist, revealing the terrified visages of Mssrs. Andre and Firmin. She could hear the telltale, self-satisfied smile in his voice as he continued, "I have written you an Opera." Throwing a package bound tightly in black and red suede to their feet, he turned his attention to the crowd. "_Don Juan Triumphant!_" His pronouncement rang victoriously against the ceiling of the foyer, its echo raining down upon the heads of those in attendance who watched him, enrapt with horror and fascination combined. Facing the two managers once more, he advised, "Instructions are included within the score. I highly recommend following them _to the letter_, gentlemen – especially regarding casting."_

_The corpse head slowly twisted her way with this, and Christine's breath caught in her throat as the twin golden eyes within the horrifying visage fixed upon hers. The figure swiveled and time seemed to slow as it descended the steps toward her. "…and as for our star, Madamoiselle Christine Daae, there can be no doubt of her exceptional talent and capabilities." The voice touched her name with a lover's caress and she felt herself drawn forward, suddenly unaware of anything but the hypnotic gaze of the creature before her – unaware of the crowd gawking at the two as they approached each other, visions of innocence and Hell inexplicably drawn to each others' presence – and unaware of the sudden disappearance of her own fiancé. "Yet," said the voice she had known for so long – the tender and unmistakable voice of her Angel – "should she swallow her girlish pride and wish to excel in her talents, she need only to return to me… her Teacher." They were mere feet away from each other, and Christine could feel the heat and power rolling off of him, washing over her cool, bared skin in splendid waves, and she closed her eyes momentarily to drink it in. No longer did she see the vision of the Red Death in its terrible, horrifying glory, but rather the visage of her Angel once again – memories of nights of reassurance and tenderness borne upon the wings of music, carried in the tremendous weight of meaning hidden with the desperation and eagerness within those shining, golden eyes. She opened her eyes once more and found herself within arm's length of the splendid creature before her._

_"You came," she whispered._

_The mask was still as a corpse's long-dead flesh, but the eyes within it spoke volumes as they narrowed in pain. "How could I not, Christine?" he murmured in response. "I can no more leave you than I can cease to breathe."_

_Christine's full lips trembled, her brown eyes glistening with tears as her hand rose to caress the carefully constructed masque and she watched those beautiful golden eyes close as his careful façade broke momentarily to allow him a heady, shuddering breath. She frowned, allowing a single tear to carry the kohl from around her eyes to carry a black track down her cheek. This visage was how he saw himself, she thought. Forever outside of a world he desperately wished to be a part of – death amongst revelry, a hideous corpse amongst youthful and beautiful living flesh. She had seen his face. She had been shocked, even horrified, when she had discovered his terrible secret – but this? He was no corpse._

_"Angel…" her murmured voice caused his golden eyes to flutter open once more to see the significance behind her eyes. His own eyes flickered down briefly and the warmth of his golden twin globes was suddenly, inexplicably replaced by a terrible anger that burned as a furnace. His hand shot up to grasp hers cruelly and he wrenched it away from the surface of his masque. A snarl could be heard by everyone in attendance as she whimpered in confusion, "… mon Ange…? Please, you're hurting me."_

_"You haven't begun to experience _pain_, Christine Daae," he responded, his free hand reaching up to her perfect neck and grasping it firmly as her eyes widened in fear and confusion. His voice lowered into a sneer, but those eyes – oh, in those eyes she could see nothing but pain and accusation there. She watched him in bewilderment until cold realization hit her, and her eyes widened in understanding, a blush of abject shame creeping up her neck from her bared shoulders and encompassing her cheeks. His voice lowered into a gutteral rumble intended for only the two of them to hear. "Ah, yes – had you forgotten that boy as easily as you'd forgotten me, my fickle Angel? You will be the death of me, Christine." His hand slid from her neck to her bodice, gripping the sparkling ring that lay there. Tearing the ring from her throat, he cried out to all in attendance, "Your chains are still mine! You will sing for _Me_!"_

_There was a bustling behind her, and Christine turned just in time to see Raoul rushing towards them, sword in hand. With a growl, her Angel shoved her heavily towards the Vicomte, who immediately dropped the weapon in response to catch his fiancée. When they turned back to where the Opera Ghost had been standing, only a column of dissipating smoke remained._

_The Opera Ghost was nowhere to be found._

Joaquin had finally submitted to a change of dressings and a lesser dosage of medication from Christine's careful ministries, but she was still worried about him. He was healing, it was true, but he was healing slowly and his determination to reject his needed treatments were only going to make things worse. Closing the door behind her as the young man slumbered on his stomach, she sighed and consoled herself with the fact that he was still with them. Hoping for anything more, she realized long ago, was asking for heartbreak.


	4. Chapter 4

"Ah, look here. The esteemed _Sainte Christine Daae _herself approaches our humble abode." The cultured, feminine voice that lilted in Raoul's ear was all the more venomous for its beauty, and he felt a chill crawl down his spine. "However does she stand so proudly with the weight of the world on her shoulders, I wonder?"

"Hold your tongue, wife." Raoul stepped away from the window that overlooked the entryway to their urban estate, no longer watching the familiar brown eyes take in the splendor of the de Chagny gardens that surrounded her. Grabbing a summer waistcoat from the wardrobe, he moved towards the door as he threw his arms through the jacket. "That woman has been through more than you can imagine, and I won't have you mocking my oldest friend." He threw the shapely but pouting blonde before him a classic winning smile and casually caressed her slightly expanded abdomen as he placed warm lips upon her cheek. "Besides, you act as if you think she's _competition_, dear woman."

The Comtesse de Chagny stiffened at this, her back straightening in protest before she collected herself and placed a peck on her husband's cheek in return. "Don't be silly, husband." Her eyes brightened with practiced as she turned to the mirror to check her garments and coif before threading her dainty, manicured hand through his offered arm. "Any old friend of my beloved is an old friend of mine." With this, she joined him in a leisurely stroll to the foyer's staircase to meet their visitor, her husband glancing at her warmly and reassuringly along the way.

Somehow, Raoul's practiced graces could never prepare him for seeing Christine, however. No matter how often she would visit, there was something about that thick mop of brown curls that made his stomach flutter and his mind track back to being hip-deep in the freezing surf, recovering a ruby red scarf for a weeping little angel – his sweet, sorrowful little Lotte. The first time those wide brown eyes fell upon his soggy, salt-kissed hands and traveled up to his face in wonder and gratitude, he knew he'd love her forever and keep her safe from all harm. His heart lightened as her gaze fell upon him in the early afternoon light, and he smiled broadly.

"Christine." The word was a boon on his lips – one whose impact he carefully attempted to control, lest he offend the lady who perched upon his arm.

Christine curtseyed formally before the noble couple in response. "Monsieur le Comte, Madame la Comtesse, it is an honor to be welcomed into your home, as always." Her smile was beaming as she looked at the graceful couple before her, even as Raoul scowled at her playfully.

"Such formality, Christine," he scolded, releasing his wife's arm gently before stepping forward and appraising the woman who stood before him. "Surely that means that you're here on business, yes?"

Christine's cheeks colored in acknowledgement as she looked to both of the de Chagnys apologetically. "It does, I'm afraid." Turning to the lovely blonde who stood a few steps behind her former fiancé, she added, "I do apologize for asking to take him away from you briefly, Comtesse. I assure you that it is not but the utmost importance."

The Comtesse Jeanette de Chagny, formerly Jeanette Bauvier, was well familiar with the inner workings of aristocratic households, given that her family held minor powers just outside of Parisian city limits. She was used to her father disappearing into his study with his peers for hours, possibly even days at a time to discuss business and political matters, and Raoul was proving to be no different. This woman, however, was no _peer_ and despite the graceful bow of her head to the former star of the Opera Populaire and murmur of encouragement, she could not help but feel the cold pangs of jealousy stab at her heart. Giving her handsome husband a quick kiss on his cheek and bidding a brief farewell to their visitor, the Comtesse left the two friends to retire to the Study, while she attended to household matters. Resolutely, she put any thoughts of jealousy aside in favor of considering her duties for the day. Concentrating on the rearranging of the house's herb garden in the back, after all, made it far easier to ignore the memories of her young husband crying out _that woman's name_ in his sleep.

With a bow that was both welcoming to Christine and playfully mocking of her earlier greeting, Raoul ushered her into the oak-paneled study. "May I get anything for you to drink before we get down to business, Christine?" He stood behind a large leather-upholstered chair, motioning her into it with a nod of his head, a smile playing upon his lips. When she sat and politely declined his offer, he took a seat nearby, leaning forward without giving it a second thought, his body demanding he stay as close to her he possibly could. "You will not be staying long then, I take it?"

The disappointment in his voice was unmasked and Christine cast her eyes down sadly, shaking her head in response. "I'm sorry, Raoul. I know it's been such a long time since I've visited, and I so dislike coming just to ask for your assistance. However, I must be at Montmartre in a few hours to attend a service." As she looked up into his eyes, they carried the full weight of the meaning behind her words.

"Oh, Christine. I'm so sorry… not another of your…?"

"Yes, Raoul… and so, I've come to ask of you another favor."

"_Christine, darling, what is it?"_

_The girl had shown up at the door of the de Chagny estate in the dark of night, her eyes numb with shock and her hair and clothing soaked to the bone. The servants had rushed straight to Raoul's quarters to awaken him, once they had finally recognized the piteous figure that waited with nothing on her lips but a whisper of Raoul's name. When he had run down the large marble staircase in the foyer, he noted with mute approval that the servants had already stoked the fire in the study back to a roaring blaze and had led the frail figure into a leather seat near the fire, bundling her trembling form with woolen blankets and encouraging her to drink from the pot of steaming tea that had been placed next to her. The tea, as far as he could tell, remained untouched._

_When Raoul rounded the chair to look at his former fiancée, his breath caught in his throat. Her eyes were swollen, rimmed with a blood red that bespoke of the kind of grief he'd not seen since the days following the Disaster just a year prior, and the pitiable wailing that had been prompted by the solitary notice in the paper saying a once finely dressed charred body had been found in the bowels of the Opera House in the investigation after the fire. Christine was quiet now, however – her rich brown eyes flat and lifeless as they stared through him and onto the warm hearth just feet away. Carefully, Raoul knelt down in front of her and took a pale, delicate hand in his. He tried to hide the shiver that passed through his body – the girl's hand was as cold as Death itself. It was mid November, and the steady rain outside carried with it a chill that would give pause to even the most resolute of hearts._

"_Christine, please. Talk to me. What happened?"_

_The two brown orbs that had been staring off into some unseen distance faltered, and the perfect doll's head turned with them to face Raoul, still not entirely focusing on him. Her brow furrowed gently even as her eyes stared through and past his. "…R-Raoul?"_

_He let a small gasp of a laugh escape his lips, his warm hands covering hers and squeezing them tightly. "Yes! It's me, Christine. What happened, love? Are you hurt?" His hand moved up to cup her pale cheek, which he noted with dismay was just as cold as her hands. "You're freezing, Lotte. We have to get you warmed up. Come here."_

_Raoul stood and Christine's eyes followed behind his movements at a delay, as if she were watching the ghosts of his actions. He took one of the nearby blankets and laid it close to the roaring fire, feeling his skin begin to prickle with sweat as she watched, her expression unreadable and almost entirely blank. Returning to the chair and ignoring any semblance of propriety, he slipped one arm behind her and one under her knees and easily lifted her unresisting frame. Carefully setting her on the blanket, he then sat behind her and pulled her to him, her back resting against his chest and the water from her soaked gown quickly seeping through his shirt and delivering its chill to his skin._

"_Little Lotte let her mind wander," he sang softly in her ear, rocking her as a parent would a child as he closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against her sodden hair. "Little Lotte thought, 'Am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, of shoes? Or of riddles, of frocks, or of chocolates?'" Murmuring their childhood song-game into her ear, he felt her first begin to relax in his embrace, and then the telltale trembling of a woman fighting to contain her grief. "Shhhhh, Lotte," he purred, petting her soaked locks as he continued to rock her against him. "Just let it go."_

_She hiccupped, then, a precursor to the sob that quickly followed. Through the curtain of her grief, Raoul could make out in her broken words and phrases that the first of her charges – a small boy by the name of Marius – had perished in the cot she'd kept next to her bed. He had awakened her with his crying hours earlier and, at a loss for what more to do to give him some comfort, she had begun to sing to him. Folk songs, hymns, whatever came to mind – Christine sang to him and by the grace of God his thrashing and mewling had reduced even as his temperature rose. There was nothing she could do – the doctors had seen him the day prior and hadn't given her encouraging news, but she still hadn't been prepared for those cloudy blue eyes to open and look at her as she sang of mercy and grace to a six year old child, and for the very distinct reality of the light in those pained eyes slowly fading into nothingness as his chest stilled, and his whimpering stopped._

_She had panicked at first, trying to shake him awake. Her shrieks of his name had brought the maid up from her quarters near the kitchen and by the time the older woman had come into the room, Christine was cradling young Marius to her chest, gripping his limp form tightly – no longer concerned with disturbing the carefully placed bandages that futilely were laid to encourage the healing of the severe burns that had covered so much of his body. She was alternating between painfully deep, guttural sobs and cries of, "Mon Ange!" when the maid gently pried the cold child from her arms and laid him respectfully back in the cot, dragging her Mistress out of the room and to the sitting room in the floor below them. Christine hadn't realized Marta had left, however briefly, to notify the local parish of the loss. However, when she returned, the Pastor was there to bless the child and to offer Christine what empty comfort he could provide before confirming that he would send men from the adjoining mortuary to pick up the child in the morning. This reality had penetrated through Christine's grief. She hadn't considered the possibility, _truly_ considered the possibility, that she would lose anyone in this quest, much less her first charge. She had not made preparations. She had no estate to speak of, only what meager donations she had been able to beg for when she first left the de Chagny estate to set off on this mission of charity. What was she to do?_

_Raoul's lips found the crown of her head repeatedly as her hiccupped sobs turned to the cold, emotionless tone of a woman who had expelled any amount of grief she could hold. Her voice, normally vibrant and sparkling with the warmth of Spring, was flat and dulled with sorrow._

"_What do I do, Raoul? I… I don't know what to do."_

_Raoul pulled her tight to his chest once more, squeezing her with reassurance and pleased to note that her warmth seemed to be slowly returning. The desire to protect this creature welled up from deep within him, and he sighed gently into her hair, which smelled now of the falling rain. In the past year, Raoul had lost his own father and was no longer the Vicomte de Chagny – the full title and privilege of being Comte of the house fell on his shoulders. He smiled softly as he whispered into her ear, "Do not fear, Lotte. I have an idea."_

Christine walked into Montmartre from its solitary entrance, following behind a black horse and cart and the priest of the local parish. On the cart, an impossibly small pine box swayed to the left and right as the cart slowly navigated the unevenly paved entrance of the cemetery. She looked up, her brown eyes sad but betraying the inner strength that curled inside of her mind and heart. She regarded the peace and beauty of her surroundings, resplendent in their summer glory. The shine of the white marble statues and stones, frozen in their eternal grief but surrounded by the glory of summer's flowering bounty and rich, fertile green grass. They walked a distance into the cemetery, the general plots giving way slowly to expansive family plots and expanses of unused greenery. A mausoleum to her right proclaimed the name "de Chagny," and Christine briefly remembered holding Raoul's hand as he quietly watched his father's gleaming black casket taken into the marble tomb to be sealed once the family had left. Past the mausoleum, however, was a far more humble plot stretch of plot, with small marble stones that Christine had become intimately familiar with, as each one was slowly added in the past four years – each claiming a piece of her heart as they were laid in the ground.

She heard the words of the priest, but paid little attention to them, concentrating instead on the grain of the pine box that little Samuel was quietly resting in. She made the appropriate murmurs along with the priest, but she could never be comfortable with the fact that she was the only one here mourning the lost. Only two of the children who rested here with their fellows had family that were willing to attend the brief service – family that were too poor to provide any kind of safe and permanent resting place for their daughter or their son. The rest had Christine, a droning priest, and a gravekeeper standing yards away with a shovel waiting for his cue to send their bodies to their last destination. Christine sighed as the service finished, and thanked the good Father who had led the service, offering him a donation to the church in return, as had become their custom. As he left, she knelt next to the box that was warm and shining in the summer sun, and placed her lips fondly on the lid before whispering words of parting and laying one perfect, blood-red rose atop the coffin. Raising with sorrow in her eyes, she looked over to Pierre, who stood nearby waiting for word to proceed, and she bowed her head slightly to him before making her way back to her home.

The walk back to the center was a long one, which gave Christine plenty of time to plan out the rest of the week and consider with gratitude Raoul's agreement not only to significantly expand the Angels' plot at Montmartre within the de Chagny holdings there, but to also provide a little more to the family's donations to the clinic itself. Her oldest and dearest friend had never let her down in the past, and knew that when she would come calling for her Angels, there were true needs – not whims – that had to be addressed. Never one to hoarde his family's fortunes, he was happy to give as he was able, given that he had told her that his investments in International trade had become quite lucrative.

So lost in her reverie and her planning, Christine did not notice until she was a few houses down from the front door to her home that there was a significant commotion on the front steps of the center. Dinah, her face wrapped in a shawl that hid the worst of her scarring, was standing shoulder to shoulder with Marta and facing off some of the local brutes from the hospital on the South end of the city, with a litter carried between them that contained a rather large body.

Christine rushed up, her eyes wide with anger at the men who stood demanding entrance to the home. "What is the meaning of this?" Addressing the leader of the brute squad, she stepped between he and the ladies behind her. "Montel, you will tell me what this is about immediately."

The man who glared back down at her would have been attractive if it weren't for the persistent scowl that he insisted upon wearing – a sneer that belied any respect for any woman who crossed his path, and even most men. "We've got one of yours here, _Madame_. You'll let us take him in."

Christine eyed the litter that was held between the two men with a critical eye as she corrected him. "That's _Madamoiselle_, Monsieur, and you know that I only take in children. _That_" she said, pointing at the still figure draped in a woolen blanket, "is far too large to be a child. Take him to the hospital, where he can receive proper care."

Montel scowled in response. "He's _one of yours_, _Madamoiselle_. He's marked up something bad, and has been beaten into a pulp. The hospital wants nothing to do with him, seeing as he's one of yours. However, if you don't want him in there, we'd be happy to just leave this right here on the street." With that, he jerked his head to the side and his companion followed his head to begin to dump the large form onto the street, eliciting a pained groan from the form between them. Christine relented, as Montel knew she would. "Wait!" she cried as they grew altogether too close to dumping the poor man on the ground. Montel smirked and regarded the woman before him, thinking – and not for the first time – that she'd probably be a great tumble if she'd just relax once in a while. Brown eyes examined the form on the stretcher one last time and the flicked back up to Montel with a frown.

"I don't know what kind of game you're playing here, Monsieur, but you know quite well that I will not let you just leave this poor man on the street." She bit her lip in thought momentarily before turning back to Dinah and Marta, giving them a nod. "We don't have cots big enough for him, so we will set him up in my room. Please make preparations accordingly." Turning back towards the man behind her, she jabbed an undignified yet dainty finger in his face, making him startle momentarily. "And _you_, Monsieur, will tell Monsieur Bower back at the hospital that this will be the first _and last_ time he sends a fully grown adult to my care center. It is his responsibility to care for adults, not mine. Do I make myself quite clear?"

For the first time, the brute faltered a moment before sheepishly nodding his head and replying, "Yes, of course. I'm sure it won't happen again."

"Good," she replied, her eyes staring unflinchingly at him in a show of authority before she sharply turned on her heel and continued, "Follow me, then. We will get this poor man situated upstairs, and _you_ will make your way home as soon as possible."


	5. Chapter 5

With the men from the Southside hospital out the door, Christine allowed herself a brief moment to rest, sighing in frustration with Musette clinging to her skirts, a look of query on her cherubic face as the woman stood with her head resting in one hand, the other hand balled in a defiant fist and resting on her hip. "Blessed Mother," she muttered to herself, "This is the very last thing I need right now." Feeling the gentle tug on her dress, Christine looked down at the golden bobbing locks of the toddler who was clinging to her, and smiled as the girl's eyes lit up once she saw that she was receiving attention. Christine bent down to pick up the girl, eliciting a small "Oof!" as she straightened. "You are getting so _big_, sweet girl!"

Dinah approached from the parlor, where the rest of the children were reading and playing quietly, and unwrapped the gingham scarf that she'd wrapped about herself to shield her face from the eyes of the general public. Christine had gifted the scarf to her, and taught her how to wrap the long cloth creatively about her head to disguise all but her eyes – a trick she'd learned from her Angel's books about Persia. He had told her at the time that not only did such head coverings allow for modesty, but they also protected the wearer against the painful combination of sun, wind and sand when traveling. Dinah was ecstatic to have the trick at her disposal and, once she mastered it, was no longer afraid to go into public. The odd garb did earn her plenty of stares still, but the girl seemed happy enough that they were staring at her fashion, and not at her grotesque face.

"I am sorry, Madamoiselle. We did try to send them away before you arrived home," she noted, looking more than a little guilty for the evening's events.

Christine shook her head. "It wasn't your responsibility to turn them away, Dinah, but I do appreciate it." She sighed, "I know quite well that they would have stayed here all night if necessary, because they know I wouldn't them away. Here – " she handed the toddler into Dinah's waiting arms. "I will need to evaluate exactly what's going on upstairs with our newest guest, and there's no time like the present. Keep the little ones occupied and I'll be down in time for dinner." She nosed the air briefly, smiling. "It smells like Marta will have it ready soon, too." Ruffling the young woman's long blonde curls fondly, she offered Dinah a warm smile before heading back upstairs.

Despite her statements to the contrary downstairs, Christine really wasn't all that interested in going into her own bedroom to evaluate the stranger that had nearly been dumped upon her doorstep. She sighed again, thinking of the conversation that she would need to have directly with Msr. James Bower, the director of long term care at Southside's hospital. She could only imagine that the person resting beneath his woolen blanket in _her bed_ must be transient, and unable to pay the kinds of fees that Msr. Bower would otherwise anticipate from a bed in his facility. She had thought she had made it clear to all of the clinics and even the religious institutions in the area that her requirements for taking in Angels were quite specific – they cannot have reached age of majority, they cannot have care available to them elsewhere, and they must be injured enough to require nearly constant care (making them poor candidates for orphanages and other care facilities in the sprawling city). She sighed softly, her mind moving her week's plans accordingly to allow for a less than polite visit to the hospital on the morrow, and to rearrange the quarters upstairs so that she would sleep with the girls in the dormitory, as she was just short enough to fit on the small cots they had available. She'd need to essentially pack her necessities in a small bag to keep near her, so she wouldn't disturb their newest guest by obtaining her daily items. Then, there was the matter of the sheets – if he was bad off, they'd need to be changed often, and she really ought to get the best of her linen off of that bed sooner rather than later. With these things on her mind, Christine gathered an armful of what she assumed would be necessities – a bedpan, a small stool, a chamber pot, a pail of fresh water, a bottle of laudanum, and a handful of bandages. Armed thusly, she made her way to the end of the hall, where her bedroom was located, and nudged the door open.

Christine's room was small – when she had obtained the small house with the donations that were made toward the center's purpose, she had made sure she picked a small room with plenty of light, leaving the rest of the larger rooms for the dormitories. Normally a brightly lit room during the day, the color in the room was instead a rosy blush, reflecting the mood of the evening's quickly setting sun. Looking out onto the street below and then out at the pink and purple sky to the West, she sighed once more and pulled the heavy drapes shut, so that her guest may convalesce in the peace of the night.

Unwilling to wake the stranger resting comfortably in bed (_her_ bed, she thought with a pang of petulance), Christine quietly fluttered about the room, gathering hairbrushes, pins, unmentionables, shoes and a couple of day dresses in a small overnight bag before taking a deep breath and turning to assess the man that lay on the other side of the room. Walking quietly to the bedside, she regarded the dingy woolen blanket that they had laid over him. She frowned. In the heat of summer, the blanket would be torture, unless the man had been in shock at the time they took him out of the hospital. Still, that horrible blanket was filthy and she prayed briefly that it was not infested with anything that would spread itself to the rest of the household. The first order of business, then, would be to remove said filthy blanket.

Right. Any time now, Christine.

She ran her hand, worn with labor, over her tightly bound locks and frowned. Why in god's name was this so difficult? It was just a _man_. She'd evaluated the younger versions of them dozens of times in the past few years. However, there was something intimidating about the figure underneath the blanket – something not quite so helpless or so innocent as the young lives that she'd taken into her care, and whose safety depended on her. No matter, she thought, I agreed to take him in, and that requires that I play the same role I've played many times before. Despite wishing she'd had another person in the room to assist or, at the very least, stand some kind of guard, she reached out and pulled back the heavy woolen blanket…

…and gasped.

Mouth agape, she pulled the blanket carefully off of the prone figure before her, rolling it gently off of him to avoid catching on any of the copious amounts of bandaging that covered his face, his neck, his arms, his torso. The bandaging stopped just above the man's waistline, where a fine belt was fastening what appeared to have once been impeccably cared for trousers around his waist – however today, they were nearly shredded, heavily bloodied and terribly muddy slacks that made the woman swallow as a pit formed in her stomach.

Christine looked back up to the man's face, which had been wrapped nearly in its entirety in bandaging. Only sunburn-cracked lips and one eye covered in an angry pink/red irritated skin were visible past the gauze. More bandages were wrapped around the thin, lean body that reclined before her, as well as the man's arms and hands. Packed wound dressing suggested to her that it wasn't just that he was _one of hers_, as Montel had put it, that put him in Southside's care in the first place. She suspected that the heavily packed areas hid puncture wounds of some sort – something she'd thankfully only dealt with once in a young man who had been turned into her care after being attacked while living on the street. Scooting the stool close to the bedside, Christine sank to sit next to the man, her heart no longer fearful but filled with compassion. Reaching a small, pale hand to his bandaged cheek, she caressed it softly, whispering, "What happened to you, Monsieur?"

_His response had been terrible – easily the most horrifying thing she had witnessed in her short eighteen years on earth. He had the wrath of a demon – something she should have known from the way he was feared by those who had been working in the Opera house since it first emerged on the Parisian art scene a few decades earlier. She should have known, but she couldn't have believed it. How could her kind but demanding, her caring and cold Angel turn into this raging inferno that flew about this grand, gothic music room? From the cold stone floor that she had fallen to, she watched him destroy everything in his path as he forced himself away from her._

"_Damn you, you little prying Pandora! You little lying Delilah! Was this what you'd wanted to see?"_

_The crash of another candelabra, thrown to the ground with one impossibly strong, yet lithe arm while the other desperately cradled the vision she had unwittingly uncovered. She hadn't meant to hurt him. In the days that she had been in the house by the lake after her triumphant debut at the Gala, she had asked him – more than once – to unmask for her. To be so close to her Maestro, her Angel, and to have him keep himself aloof from her had been more than she could bear. Every moment she'd spent in his presence was electrifying, as if the music that he had introduced to her soul just surrounded him with raw power, radiating its energy and gripping her in its unyielding embrace. That first night, after the stress of the performance and her own habits of scant meals prior to a performance had forced her to succumb to darkness – at his touch, his voice in her ear, surrounded by the cold and dark beauty of his underground lair, she had leaned back against him and had but one moment to enjoy the feel of his body pressed against hers before her eyes fluttered shut. Her last memory of that night was ghostly – his voice and the touch of a supple, leather gloved hand tenderly caressing her cheek before the darkness consumed her once more. "Help me make the Music of the Night…"_

"_Curse you! You little viper. Now you cannot ever be free…"_

_Christine cowered reflexively as his rage once again approached her, his golden eyes carrying the anger of Vesuvius itself as they laid upon her, and despite her effort to the contrary, she began to cry._

"_Mon ange…"_

"_Damn you!"_

"…_please…"_

"_**Curse you."**_

_It had been a game. The third morning she woke, she had grown tired of the wall between them. She wanted to know him, prove to him that he could trust her. His presence, formal and alien as he had forced it to be, set her soul aflame. He awoke needs within her that she could not begin to define, and the child in her was eager to take away that last barrier, to see what the next door would open, to discover the secrets that might keep him from finally opening himself to her. She would take that last wall and wrench it away and they would laugh, and perhaps he would catch her in those arms again, and show her what he had meant by his Music of the Night… and so, when she snuck behind him with mischief in her eyes and her heart, and laid her hands upon his face, she had not considered the consequences. Truly, she had not considered that the mask existed to do anything but hide his identity – she had never guessed it was there to hide his stark, bleeding shame. He melted into her touch, and smiled then, imagining only what possibilities lay ahead when she deftly purloined the mask from his bliss-filled face. She hadn't imagined the sudden rigidity of his body frozen briefly in utter terror. She hadn't imagined the scream of rage and anguish that erupted from his perfect throat. She hadn't imagined _that face_, unlike anything she'd ever seen before, and unlike any monster that she'd seen the Opera try to recreate on stage._

_Sobbing beneath his gaze, his porcelain mask clutched to chest with both hands, she shook in her sorrow. What had she done…?_

_She had not heard him approach, nor him crouch beside her, but she smelled him through her rapidly clogging sinuses – the smell of cloves and musk, of old parchment and exotic spices. She felt his gentle touch on her hand and opened swollen eyes to see him pressing a silken handkerchief into her palm with his free hand._

_Barbed, venomous, wounded, the words dripped from his lips - "Stranger than you dreamt it? Can you even dare to look, or bear to think of me?"_

_Another strangled sob escaped Christine's throat as she wiped her eyes and nose with the cloth, shame coloring her from her décolletage to her cheeks. His voice changed in response, becoming relenting, pleading, gentle, and sorrowful. "Fear can turn to love – you'll learn to see the man behind the monster, this… repulsive _carcass_ who burns in Hell, but secretly years for Heaven… secretly…"_

_His voice broke, and she dared to look up in her disgrace only to see him turned away from her, his unmarred cheek closest to her and wet with tears. …what had she done?_

_Slowly, gently, she uncurled her fingers from the finely crafted mask that had enchanted her so when it appeared in the mirror, and noted that she had been gripping it so tightly that its edges had left impressions in her fingers. Reaching out, she tentatively placed her fingertips on his leg and, seeing that he was not flinching from her treacherous touch, she extended her other arm to offer him back his mask. His beautiful golden eyes flitted to hers briefly, and her lower lip trembled._

"_I'm so sorry," she whispered, a fresh sob erupting from her throat._

_The mask was returned to its rightful home deftly, and it was mere moments before she was enveloped in those strong arms once more, pulling her to his warmth as she trembled in regret. "Oh, Christine…"_

She closed the door with a soft "click" behind her, one rather dirty and regrettably unsavory blanket bundled in her arms as she made her way to the laundry room in the first floor. She groaned as she threw the blanket in the empty washtub, making a note to return after dinner was over to wash the thing before it had a chance to contaminate the household any more than it already may have. When Christine walked into the dining room, eight pairs of eyes turned her way. She took her seat at the head of the table, smiling to the younger children and encouraging them to eat before meeting Dinah and Marta's eyes and lowering her voice. "…and where is Joaquin?"

"Not feeling well, Mistress," replied Dinah, her eyes cast back down to the stew and bread that Marta had prepared for the group. "He says he's not hungry."

Christine sighed in frustration, her own rumbling stomach silenced as her lips thinned. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. She forced herself to take a spoonful of the hearty stew and responded, "How did he look?"

There was a pause as Dinah considered her answer. "Pale."

Christine felt the blood drain from her face, and her breathing stuttered before she forced herself back into control. "I will bring him his dinner, then, when we are done." Looking to Marta, she added, "I have left our mystery guest's blanket in the washbasin to be laundered tonight. Would you mind…?"

"Of course, Madamoiselle," the older woman responded easily. "I'll work on it as soon as I'm finished cleaning up after dinner. Will you be bringing him some dinner, as well?"

Christine played with her dinner briefly and shook her head in response. "He's in very rough shape, Marta. I'll go back before the night's over to change some of his dressings, but the damage is nearly full body." Her head shot up as she remembered the man's pants and turned her gaze to Marta, "I will, however, be in need of some fresh clothing for him when he wakes. What was left of his clothing is completely unpresentable."

Dinah blushed fiercely at this comment, her young mind wandering to places Christine would rather not second guess. Marta noticed this as well, and chortled. "Let me raid the boys' closets when I get home tonight, Mistress. If they don't have something presentable, perhaps I still have some of Bernard's old clothing that might work. What's he like?"

Christine blinked, her mind once again having wandered off and making endless lists of things that needed to be completed. "Pardon?"

"Your man upstairs. Short? Wide? Built like a bull or a fawn?"

She shook her head, clearing her thoughts from where she realized they'd wandered to, weaving into memories of the scent of old parchment and exotic spice. She sniffed at the stew to see if the scent was coming from there. She frowned, and Marta's clipped voice once again intruded into her thoughts. "Something you don't like there, Madamoiselle?"

Christine coughed and swallowed another spoonful of her dinner, shaking her head yet again. "I'm so sorry, Marta. No. I had thought that I was smelling something peculiar…" She sniffed at her dress sleeve, and noticed a faint trace of it there. "It must have been in the blanket. I apologize. Our guest is tall and lean, if you please, but I'm sure whatever you have would be better than what I'm going to have to cut off of him tomorrow." Dinah nearly choked on the piece of bread that she had been chewing on, one bright blue eye wide and staring at Christine in shock. Christine reached forward and rested her hand on the girl's in reassurance. "No worries, girl. I promise I will not make you attend for that." Christine wasn't sure she wanted to attend it either, but she didn't have much of a choice in the matter.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I was so encouraged by the very lovely reviews and excellent conversations my readers, that I had to finish this chapter and get it out today. Thank you all for your kind words and your encouragement!


	6. Chapter 6

Dinah watched Christine leave that morning shortly after the morning's medication distribution had been completed, and she had a list of tasks in hand that she knew needed to be completed in Christine's absence that day. She allowed herself a small smile of pride, knowing that Mademoiselle Daae trusted her implicitly not just with the day to day operations of the center (which she had been watching and practicing carefully from the day she had become well enough to assist the overworked woman with her responsibilities), but with the safety of her angels, as well. Since Christine would be spending most of the day traveling to and from the clinic on the South side of the city, Dinah had hours before her to not only meet the needs of the center, but to also do what she could to make her Mistress' life a little easier.

Therefore, when the morning chores had been completed and lunch had been handled, Dinah took it upon herself to handle what she considered the two most challenging tasks in the house, in hopes of alleviating the burden for her benefactor when she returned that evening. Dinah was going to take care of the two men of the house.

She knocked at the door to the boy's dormitory, purely for propriety's sake, before readjusting the tray she carried and admitting herself. The scene was one she was well familiar with – the boys' and girls' dormitories were comparable in size and set up, with cots and simple dressers in each for the children's use. Dinah made a mental note to tidy later as she looked at the small wooden toys that were scattered across the floor, and set the tray of broth, bread and water on a table near the only occupied cot in the room.

"You bother to knock, but not to wait for me to tell you to come in." Joaquin laid on his stomach as usual, a picture book on ancient art opened before him. He had not even looked up to see her enter. "How polite you are."

"It's past noon, Joaquin," the girl replied, reflexively putting her fists to her hips as she'd seen Christine do numerous times in the past when she wasn't open to being questioned. "You have to eat something. I've brought you some broth and bread."

"On the contrary," the boy responded, turning the page while still pointedly refraining from looking both at the girl and the tray she had presented to him, "I don't _have_ to do anything at all. As a matter of fact, that you're here and not the Taskmaster tells me she's gone for the forseeable future and, indeed, I can do whatever I like... including not eating this slop from the kitchen."

She sighed, raising her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose in frustration, the marred side of her face tight as the muscles under the scarred skin pulled together to furrow her brow. "Joaquin, please. I'm trying to help, here."

"You can help by leaving. Feel free to take this with you." He waved in dismissal to the tray laying nearby.

Dinah pursed her lips. "I'd be happy to take it with me, once I've seen you _eat_ some of it. I'm not going to have her come home this afternoon to you continuing to starve yourself."

"Still brown nosing your Mistress then, I see."

She scowled in response. "I'm making myself useful. Not all of us have families to return to, after all. Some of us have to make do where we are."

That was enough to get his attention. Clear blue eyes turned her way as a youthful face tainted with scorn eyed her evenly. Dinah fought the strong urge to turn the marred portion of her face away from the young man in embarrassment, remembering instead Christine's repeated admonishments when she had done so before. _Your face is nothing to be ashamed of, Dinah,_ she'd tell her. _The people who matter won't care about it, and the people who care about it don't matter._ She straightened her spine as she looked down with as much authority as she could muster, waiting for his response. When he finally responded, his remark shocked her.

"You've done something different with your hair," he said, the hard look in his eyes not diminishing although the challenge was gone from his voice. "The ribbon is a nice touch."

Christine had given her some silken ribbons just a few weeks back, saying that they complimented the color of her eyes. This morning, she'd taken the time to plait a sky blue ribbon into her blonde locks, and she caressed it self-consciously. "I... um, well, thank you." She felt her unmarred cheek flush in response to his continued gaze, and coughed gently. "...but don't think that will get you out of having some lunch." Dropping her hand, she pulled a chair close to his cot and sat near him and the tray. "Please, Joaquin. You need the energy to heal, and if you continue not eating, you're not going to get any better. Don't you want to go home?"

He regarded her for a moment before turning back to his book, pretending to read again, but his eyes vacant, distant. Dinah's breath caught in her throat as realization swept over her. "Joaquin... you're not afraid to go home, are you?"

He sighed and dropped his head reflexively down, his forehead resting on the pages of artwork. "My parents relied on me for so much. I can't even move without help now, Dinah." His voice quieted, and she could hear the emotion trembling in his chest as he added, "They need all the help they can get now, and I'm just going to be a burden. I can't bear that."

Dinah reached out, one heavily scarred and slightly twisted hand resting gently on his arm. He turned his head slightly, his gaze resting on that angry red hand as she whispered to him, "You will recover, Joaquin. You'll be able to do more than you think... but not if you will yourself to waste away before you give your body the chance to heal." She picked up the bowl of cooling broth and a cloth napkin, pushing the bowl his way. "I won't lie to you. It's not easy and you won't likely return to where you were before. Some days, it hurts more than you think you can bear, and you don't ever forget the scars are there, but you can still move forward. I promise."

He took the bowl in both hands and gazed down into the fragrant broth before murmuring, "You must miss your parents."

Her lower lip trembled momentarily in response before she reclaimed control of her emotions. 'I do. Every day. If I had the chance to be with them again, I wouldn't squander it."

Joaquin raised the bowl to his lips and sipped tentatively at first, and then drank more deeply of the nourishing liquid. Resting the bowl again, he turned back to Dinah, opening his mouth and then closing it again as if he weren't sure of what to say. "I just..." His gaze fluttered to the floor, unable to hold her eyes. "Thank you, Dinah. I promise to finish this, but it's going to take me some time."

She nodded in understanding, rising from her chair. "If you need me, call for me. I'll be just down the hallway, checking in on Madamoiselle's newest guest, and I'll come back when I'm done."

His eyebrow raised. "A new guest? I hadn't heard of anyone new arriving."

Dinah laughed easily. "Of course you haven't. You've been holed up in here for almost two days." She smiled at his returned scowl, the lopsided grin brightening her countenance. "He was brought in last night, and is resting in her bedroom. She's sleeping in our dormitory until she can release him."

Joaquin looked at her in puzzlement. "Why not just bring him in here?"

"He's an _adult_, Joaquin. He's very tall, and won't fit on any of the cots."

The boy's eyes widened even as his mouth formed an "O" in response. "An adult...?"

"The men from the hospital were going to leave him on the street outside if she didn't take him in, so she relented."

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her with a pointed stare. "Does she know you're going in to check on him?"

Dinah had the good grace to blush slightly with the implied admonishment. "She didn't have a chance to change all of his bandaging, from what she'd said this morning. He was still sleeping, and his chest and arms were checked, but since the head bandaging wasn't weeping, she didn't take the time to change it out. I'm just going to rewrap him and change out any of the chest bandaging that needs attention."

Joaquin huffed at this, turning his attention back to the bowl for another sip. "Suit yourself. Have fun. Here's hoping he doesn't wake while you're tending to him, though – I don't know if you want to be the only one in the room when he wakes."

As Dinah walked to Christine's bedroom with a small basket of bandaging and a blunted pair of scissors in hand, she considered this, her hand raising to touch her uncovered scars thoughtfully. Joaquin was right, although perhaps not for the reason he had suggested. The last thing their newest patient was going to need would be the shock of her face being the first thing he saw in recovery. She sighed and detoured into the girls' dormitory, pulling the long gingham scarf out of her private drawer and wrapping it carefully around her head to hide the bulk of her injury. Satisfied with the results, she made her way to the end of the hall and carefully opened the door.

The girl pulled a chair near the side of the bed and regarded the man sleeping on the cot before her. The clean white linens that Christine had changed out were pulled up to his chest, covering most of his arms. His mouth was open slightly, the sound of his slumber a soft hum on Dinah's ears. As she had anticipated, his head had been completely covered in long bandages, wrapped carefully to protect his skin from the harsh air. _Well_, she thought, _as she says, no time like the present._ Dinah grabbed the blunted short shears and gently began the work of cutting away the wrapping.

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><p>The morning had passed altogether too quickly for Christine, and it wasn't until after noon that she finally made her way by foot to the other end of the city and found herself in front of the high stone walls of Val-de-Grace.<p>

_Grace, indeed,_ Christine thought wryly. _What grace presents an injured man to my doorstep and threatens to leave him to the elements if I do not take him into my care?_

She pushed through the entryway of the hospital and quickly made her way past patients, nurses and orderlies alike to reach the administrative offices, stopping short of the small desk outside the director's office. When the mousy young man behind the desk did not deign to look up upon her arrival, she cleared her throat politely and waited for his perpetually bored countenance to raise to meet her eyes.

"Good afternoon, Andre. Is M. Bower available?"

The young man's hazel eyes flickered briefly from the schedule on his desk to the closed oaken doors to his left and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch down a moment before he responded, "I'm afraid M. Bower is preparing for a very important meeting right now, Mademoiselle Daae. I would be happy to pass a message to him, however, once the meeting is completed." Christine noticed without surprise that he indeed looked _less_ than happy to pass the message forward.

Her glance similarly flickered to the doors leading into the Director's office, and she smiled gracefully at the clerk before her. "That won't be necessary, Andre. This won't take but a moment."

Christine's hand was on the door handle before Andre could rise to protest, and she was through the door and standing before M. Bower's large mahogany desk before he could stop her.

"M. Bower, I'm sorry," the young man stuttered, "she just -"

The graying gentleman behind the desk dismissed his clerk with a wave. "It's perfectly fine, Andre. It has been some time since Mlle. Daae and I have had a chance to speak." With this, he rose and approached the young woman, his touch feather-light upon her shoulders and his thin lips pressing to her right, then her left cheek. As Andre closed the door behind him, the Director gestured to one of the lushly upholstered leather chairs that sat before his desk, which Christine took gratefully, her feet aching from her walk. Taking his own seat on the other side of the desk once more, he questioned, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company today, my dear?"

Christine's smile was bright and gracious even though her eyes shone with strength. "I would hope you'd know that already, M. Bower. I have a patient in my care that rightly belongs here, in your hospital. Your men threatened to leave him on the street in front of my center if I did not take him in." Gazing directly into his eyes, she continued, "You know full well what the rules are for the angel care center, and yet you allowed your men to force a fully grown adult into my care. I do not have the facilities to handle this situation, Monsieur. I want to know what you intend to do to rectify this matter."

James Bower's hands opened in a show of helplessness. "Mademoiselle, I do apologize for the inconvenience, but your center appeared to be the best place to send that poor soul. Of course we'd be happy to send you supplies to assist with your care, but your newest guest wasn't doing well here at all."

"Were his injuries that severe?" Christine's brow furrowed in confusion.

The Director's eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed as he considered his words. "There is a certain... _calming_ effect to the healing ministrations of a young woman such as yourself. Your patient showed himself to be particularly disagreeable, especially when our aides attempted to remove the bandages that were on his face."

Her eyebrow raised. "He... he _arrived_ bandaged?"

The gray head before her nodded vigorously. "Indeed. The orderly that tried to restrain him so we could change out his bandaging is convalescing down the hallway with a broken arm, Mademoiselle. It was our hope that your tender mercies might help soothe that savage beast."

Christine's face had turned ashen as she rose to her feet, looking upon the Director in stark disbelief. "You... you sent a patient known for violence... to _me_?"

M. Bower's voice dripped with sweetness while his eyes made a show of pleading for mercy. "Surely, Mademoiselle, you will be perfectly fine. No brute would dare turn his hand to you while in your care."

However, Christine was no longer registering the Director's words, but was instead picturing her houseful of angels, unguarded, and her own dedicated assistant who would undoubtedly attempt to help in any way possible. "Dinah..."

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><p>The man's face wasn't anything like what Dinah had seen before in her time at the center, and was starkly different from the gnarled flesh currently hidden beneath the gingham scarf. The flesh was desiccated on one side of his face, much like hers, and he had lost the majority of his hair there, as well. However, the way the flesh was ravaged was different – not burned or eaten away, but almost like the tissue had died, the flesh beneath it withering like a plant that hadn't been watered. His lips, dry and blistered, were uneven, flaring out towards the ruined half of his face and his cheekbones were so sharp that there seemed to be little but a scant few blood vessels and a few layers of skin between the air and his bone. She frowned and looked again at his face, and at the bandages that she had removed. There was no sign of wound anywhere on his face, or of any seepage on the bandages. She imagined those who had cared for him at the hospital must have wrapped his head reflexively, without realizing that the damage that had been done was completed and healed many decades prior. She shook her head. It wouldn't have been the first time someone came through the center that hadn't been properly evaluated at their first site of treatment.<p>

Dinah pulled the blanket down further, noting the some of the packed bandages were showing a need of changing there already, as well. Humming a quiet melody that she'd heard her Mistress sing to herself when she thought she was alone, she began the slow task of removing the old packing and replacing them with fresh, clean bandages. She winced at the larger wounds, the packing a vicious yellow/red as it soaked up the blood and plasma from the seeping cuts. She was securing the last of the larger wounds when her patient groaned, shifting on the bed. The girl looked up, just in time to see the man's eyelids flutter open, and the most brilliant yellow eyes cast about the room sluggishly at first, and then widen in alarm.

He tried to sit up. "Where..."

Dinah was at his side in an instant, her good arm strong against his back to provide him with support. "Shhh, Monsieur," she reassured him as if she would a child. "It's the laudanum. You're going to feel dizzy for a bit while you get your bearings, but you're safe here. Would you like a drink?"

Numbly, the man nodded, his hands firm on the mattress as he struggled to keep from collapsing back onto the pillow. He groaned as she handed him the small glass, her clear blue eye meeting his mistrustful golden gaze as he eyed her carefully. "You wear odd fashion for a Parisian, girl," he commented before raising the glass to his lips. It wasn't until he had taken two long drinks from the glass that he froze in horror, his eyes wide in realization as his free hand flew up to his face.

The bandages. _They were gone_.

Dinah moved far faster than she'd ever given herself credit for when his hand whipped forward and the glass she'd provided to the stranger shattered with a crash behind her head, against the far wall. The scream of rage that ripped from his throat sent her reeling back, as far away from his terrible countenance as she could get. With wide eyes, she curled against the side of Christine's dresser for protection and watched the man that she had assumed was weak and frail in his recovery lurch to his feet, upending anything within his reach in his white-hot anger. His gaze finally fell on her, his mouth curled into a vicious sneer.

"You…" he growled, approaching her in slow, careful steps as his eyes burned through her soul, "You took them, didn't you?" He pointed to his exposed face, his voices rising and ringing off of the walls of the small room. "You did this, didn't you? How does it feel to look upon this, now, you invasive little snake? Has your curiosity been sated? _Has it?_"

Dinah trembled as the man towered over her, his odd face twisted in rage and his eyes ablaze as he awaited her response. Wide eyed and fearful, she reached up and slowly began to unwrap the scarf from around her head. The man's rage visibly began to melt as he saw what was being exposed before him and, with the loss of his anger, his strength slowly faded as well. "W-what are you…?" Dinah finally held the scarf in its entirety in her hands, her angry scarred skin a beacon to his eyes, offset by the beautiful blue and blonde of the perfected side of her face. He sunk to his knees before her, eyes wide in shock and mouth agape. Taking the chance to scoot forward and close the distance between them, she held the scarf out to him in offering, her countenance compassionate yet cautious.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur," she whispered, gesturing for him to take the garment. "I promise I wasn't prying, I was only trying to help."

He took the checked scarf in his hands and gazed down upon it as if she had given him the finest of gossamer. Rendered speechless, he did not flinch or move when she knelt next to him. "I… I can help show you how to put it on, if you'd like, Monsieur. My Mistress taught me how to hide, and I can teach you, if you'd like."

The whispered response was not the voice she had anticipated hearing, so caught up in the power of his emotion was she. "That… will not be necessary, Dinah. He knows well enough how to hide."

Dinah's bright blue eyes shot up to see a very pale Christine leaning against the doorjamb, eyes wide as saucers and her body suggesting that it was taking every bit of her remarkable strength to stay standing. Her chest heaved, and Dinah somehow knew that she had rushed through the house and up the stairs to reach this room, although Dinah hadn't heard a thing. The girl stood immediately, her face flushing in embarrassment, and she smoothed out her skirts hurriedly before rushing to her Mistress' side. "Mademoiselle, I only wanted to help…"

Christine reached up to touch the girl's marred cheek in reassurance, her fingers trembling and cold as ice despite the heat outside and her gaze locked on the back of the figure who still knelt in his misery in the corner. "I know, sweetheart. You did well." Turning her gaze on her charge, her eyes focused on the girl's, then roamed her body quickly. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

The girl shook her head. "No, I'm fine, I promise." She looked back at the miserable figure behind her. "It's not his fault, Mademoiselle, I promise. I shouldn't have…"

Christine's fingers were firm upon the girl's chin and she directed her to look directly into Christine's eyes, which were heavy with meaning that Dinah did not comprehend. "_No_, Dinah. This was _not_ your fault. You did nothing wrong, do you understand me?" Turning her gaze back to the wretch before her, she added, "Go, Dinah. Check on Joaquin and then let Marta know everything is fine up here. I will be… indisposed… for some time."

"Mistress…"

The woman's gaze was distant, sorrowful, and showed a longing that Dina had never before seen when she turned to meet the girl's eyes yet again. The command came as a whisper, soft as down. "Go. Please."

The girl bowed slightly before slipping past Christine and out the door. It seemed an eternity after the "click" of the door latch that either of them spoke, her gaze on the back of his tattered head, his on the length of cotton that was offered with the utmost compassion. The soft, familiar rumble of his voice sent electricity shooting through her body and she felt that if she could die right there, that voice once again caressing her soul after the starvation she'd experienced for the past five years, she would thank God himself when she reached the gates of Heaven. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Dinah," Christine whispered in response. She swallowed, her emotions caught in her throat and threatening to escape with a torrent of tears. "She is my charge, and she helps care for the others here. Her parents died in the fire that took her face and body, and her appearance keeps her from being adopted or hired out." She swallowed again, taking a steady breath. "She is of singular strength and tremendous compassion. She helps me care for my Angels until they are well enough to fly."

He nodded, his head bowed forward and his breath shuddering at the term of endearment that they had passed between each other seemingly a lifetime ago. "…and you… what… how…"

Somehow, she found the strength to stand on her own. Impossibly, her legs carried her across the room to crouch behind the trembling figure. Moving to her knees behind him, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him to her, gently so as not to irritate his wounds, and buried her face in the back of his neck as he reached up to clasp her hands in his, his body shuddering with silent sobs. "Oh… Christine…" Her name was a benediction on his lips and she could not help the tears that fell from her own eyes, blessing his scarred back like a sprinkling of holy water. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, shushing him gently, and proceeded to hum a lullaby that she'd heard echo within his walls when she was uneasy and unable to sleep in the dormitories.

Finally, his trembling ceased, and Christine could sense the fatigue that threatened to overtake him. "Come, mon Ange. We have much to discuss, but first, we must get you to bed."

"_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance."_

_It had been three agonizing months since the voice had touched her ears, and with those few words, Christine forgot the sorrow that encompassed her as she sat in the ankle-deep snow before her father's grave. Tears frozen on her eyelashes in the cold, she lowered the hood that protected her from the winter's bite, and looked around her in wonder, seeing nothing but the cold stone and marble of the cemetery. She pulled the cloak closer about her, whirling about to find the source of the voice, suddenly fearing that she had imagined it._

"_Angel or father, friend or phantom…? Who is there, staring?" For a long, excruciating moment, there was no sound but the soft patter of the falling snow, and the echo of her own crystalline voice. She swallowed, her eyes threatening to tear up yet again – how could you have thought he'd return to you, Christine?_

_But there it was again, a whisper on the wind that carried through the winter's chill and caressed her with the promise of a spring thaw. "Have you forgotten your Angel, child?"_

_Christine clasped her hand to her mouth, the relieved sob that burst from her throat caught in the fabric of her glove. _Where are you?_ she thought, _Please let me see you._ Her voice came out in a rasp, a whisper that she knew he'd hear. "Angel…" A hot tear ran down her cheek, cooling by the point it reached her chin. "Angel, speak to me… please." She swallowed heavily, her eyes desperately searching for his dark form among the white and gray that surrounded her. "What endless longings echo in this whisper."_

"_Christine!" She could hear a growl carry softly on the wind as she turned to see her lover rushing to her, heavily dressed in woolen finery. "Christine, what are you _thinking_, coming out here alone?" Raoul's hand found her arm and firmly but gently pulled her away from her father's stone, and immediately Christine felt the stark loss of that warmth the voice had brought with it. Raoul's hand cupped her cheek, pulling her searching, frantic gaze away from the surrounding cemetery and to look into his own eyes. "Love, what is it? You look like you've seen a spirit."_

_Christine's mouth opened, but nothing came out. _Not seen, Raoul,_ she thought, _but heard._ "It's the chill, isn't it?" he asked, looking at her with painfully potent tenderness. "My poor Christine. My carriage is outside the gates. Come, we'll get you warmed up."_

_Her eyes once again glanced across the landscape of the graveyard, her heart feeling like it was being ripped from her chest as he led her to his carriage. Her whisper carried on the wind, reaching the ever acute ears of the man who hid in wait, watching his young rival drag the young diva back to the warmth of civilization. "Angel…" His lips curled into a sneer, his desire to see her eyes upon him second only at this point to the desire of feeling his hands around the boy's neck. With a snarl, he turned and fled the graveyard the way he came, the stark pain of loss and desire for revenge eating away at his heart like a toxin._

"Christine…"

She sat next to him as he reclined on the bed, having watched him slumber for the past few hours. He had passed out as soon as she had been able to get him into a comfortable position, and she smiled at him as she had watched him try to fight to keep his eyes open, those beautiful golden eyes desperately trying to watch her as if he feared she would disappear. As he woke, she reached out to take his hand, squeezing his fingers gently. "I'm here."

It was dark, now, and dinner had long since passed. Dinah had showed timidly to check in on her and to bring some dinner, and was visibly relieved to see the quiet tableau of the young woman sitting near the bed, eyes fixed upon the ruined face with nothing but tenderness in her eyes, skin aglow with the light of the single tallow candle that burned near the head of the mattress. His eyes were open now, and weary. He ventured a smile, the lips of the unmarred side of his face curling up slightly.

"I feared I had been dreaming. You would be gone when I awoke."

Her thumb caressed the thin, warm skin of hand with care. "I won't leave you again, mon Ange. This I swear to you."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! Your feedback inspires me to write, and to write (hopefully) well. I am so glad you are enjoying my little tale!

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><p>It had been nearly three days since the mysterious man had been dropped into Christine's lap, and the mood in the house had shifted considerably to make room for the new Christine that flitted through the house in her daily tasks, when she wasn't at the market or sitting quietly with her newest charge in her bedroom. While the center was never what one might call dreary, there was a solemn kind of peace to it before that might remind a person of an abbey, or a monastery – an aura of devotion, love and self-sacrifice. From the moment Christine emerged from her bedroom the night the upper floors were wracked with screams that seemed to emanate from the pit of Hell and Dinah came scrambling downstairs with eyes wide and refusing to let anyone else check on their Mistress, the mood of the small center had morphed. No long infused with quiet contemplation, there was an aura of joy – the light streaming in from the summer sun seemed brighter, her smiles no longer tainted with a far-off sadness. Her strolls through the garden behind the house often resulted in fresh bouquets of flowers showing up throughout the household, including the dormitories, and she would be seen each morning carrying one of the blood-red roses from the bushes she carefully tended out back.<p>

Marta watched Christine's glowing countenance, secret smiles and heard her quietly hummed melodies as she drifted through the household as if in a dream, and she chuckled. Finally cornering her Mistress in the kitchen while Christine was scrubbing through the week's laundry, she smiled with an, "I know that look, dearie."

Christine had been looking at the eggshell linens gripped in her small hands, her eyes wistful and far away, and she looked up as if she hadn't realized Marta was there. "Pardon, Marta? I'm sorry, I was miles away."

The older woman chortled. "That's perfectly obvious, Mistress. I said that I know that look of yours, my dear."

Christine cast her eyes back at the washing, pulling the linens roughly against the washboard and doing her best not to grin, but failing to hide the amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes. "What look might that be, then, Marta?"

Marta turned back to scrubbing out the pan they had used that morning for the oatmeal, and the younger woman could hear the laughter threatening to bubble from her voice. "Le regard d'amor, Mistress. Le regard de joie." Marta turned her head to catch Christine's eye and returned her smile before turning back to put a bit more effort into the bits that stubbornly refused to come off of the bottom of the pot. "I know the look well, I was positively glowing with it when Bernard and I began courting. Having said that, Mademoiselle…" Christine heard the unmistakable sound of the pot being carefully set back in the sink, and looked up to see Marta eyeing her carefully, "…it was some time before that developed. You were walking on air the day he woke and set the house on its ear. Seems like that would only happen if you had met his acquaintance before."

Christine flushed at the truth of the statement – how must it look for her to be so obviously infatuated? A grown woman, fawning over what others perceived only as a stranger? "I… yes. We knew each other for quite some time before the Opera Populaire burned, Marta. We were very dear to each other." She pursed her lips, remembering that night and the feel of the biting cold on her skin, melting snow making its way through her flimsy slippers, the raging heat of the opera house on her face. "I thought I had lost him in the fire." She frowned, remembering the papers reporting the poor soul found in the corridors beneath the opera house. "In fact, I was certain of it."

"…and he _allowed_ you to believe that he was gone? Vanished, like a thief in the night?" Marta snorted and turned back to her scrubbing. "Fine friend that is – doesn't even give you the courtesy of a how-d'ye-do to let you know he's okay."

The younger woman sighed, her heart aching still with the memory, eyes lifting reflexively to the ceiling and focusing on where she knew he lay in rest upstairs. "It's not like that, Marta," she whispered. "He wanted me to be happy. He wanted me to have a perfect life with the Comte and to never have to worry about him again. He did it for _me_."

Marta nodded, her black and grey curls bobbing. "Sounds like a perfectly male thing to do, my dear. All heart, no head. Look where you ended up in the end – on your own, without the de Chagny title after all." The maid caught herself, realizing that she was treading in sensitive territory – even five years later, the ending of the young couple's betrothal mere months after the disaster was never publicly addressed, but often whispered about in aristocratic circles, behind closed doors, when Parisian nobility thought the servants were not listening. "Begging your pardon, of course, Mistress."

Christine chuckled. "I do not take offense, Marta. This situation is anything but common, I suppose." She shook her head, going back to her work once again. "My entire life, I think, has been anything but common."

The grey-haired woman hefted the large pot out of the sink, carrying back to its home near the pantry. "…and all the better your angels are for it, Mademoiselle." She stopped, balancing the heavy pot on one hip and looking at Christine with a heavy gaze until the girl looked up to meet her eye. "Whatever you've been through in your short life, Mistress, one thing is for certain." She gestured with her free hand towards the foyer and the library of the small home and nodded with a stoic kind of approval. "You've taken those experiences and you've done God's work with them. And, if I may be so bold, my dear, perhaps it's reached a time where He deigns to reward you for that devotion."

Christine's gaze flitted from Marta's steady one, and rose once again to look at – no, through – the copper-plated ceiling of the kitchen, to where her Angel lay slumbering above.

"_I'm frightened, mon Ange."_

_Her voice had come out in a whisper as she sat in the oversized dressing room before her vanity, staring at the reflection of the woman in the mirror as if she were a stranger. Years of practice, perfection, training, encouragement, discipline – it had all come to this night, this moment. She was a vision in white in the mirror, virginal purity to be set before the bloodthirsty Hannibal in the third act of Chalumeau's opera – a temptation, an offering of her virginal blood on his sheets to ensure that the brilliant tactician returned to his homeland triumphant after slaughtering the invading Roman armies. Christine took a deep breath, willing her body from its flight instinct, from the screaming nerves that pictured the opera house full of revelers from the drunken gala that had been held in the hours prior to the curtain rise. Piangi would be on stage, now – that kind man who maintained an aura of aloofness only because it pleased La Carlotta to see that he fawned solely over her. She had been intimidated by him previously, but in the silence of the wings backstage, when Christine trembled alone at the weight of what had been given to her at the practice earlier that day, the rotund tenor saw her, came to her, put his hand on her shoulder and smiled with an encouraging nod, and walked on before he could be seen. Piangi's number for the gala was a song of hope and blood, the rant of a conqueror in bed and on the battlefield. It would be followed shortly by Christine's pure voice and even more pure appearance as Elissa – arguably, the most well known and beloved musical number of the opera, and the close of the gala's performances for the evening._

_M. Firmin and M. Andre were doing more than taking a chance on her this evening. They were risking the reputation of the entire season of the opera by not only putting her forth, but by giving her the final number – the one that the audience would be speaking of as they milled about in the grand lobby, and out of the opulent doors into the warm summer night. Christine hung her head, doubt clouding her mind and fear gripping her heart. Her hands fidgeted nervously in her lap, and she swallowed heavily, willing her eyes to _not_ well up, for her sniffling _not_ to begin._

_You're the _Diva_, Christine – Divas don't cry._

_They don't…_

_Christine felt the first telltale drop tickle the lashes of her lower lid, and pounded her small fists into her lap in frustration before grabbing a small handkerchief and dabbing gently at her eye to ensure her carefully applied makeup did not run. "Blast it," she muttered, sniffling audibly and clenching her jaw shut to prevent any further lapse into her overly emotional nature._

_It was then that Christine felt the Presence enter her room, turning the expansive room typically inhabited by La Carlotta into something that felt like it was the size of a small closet. Her breath caught as the energy enveloped her – something that would otherwise spawn claustrophobia if it weren't for the familiarity and the comfort of it all._

_She closed her eyes, a smile curling the corners of her full lips. "Mon Ange.."_

_The responding chuckle was soft, but it echoed throughout the room, its reverberations tickling the fine hairs on her arms and caressing her with adoration. "My poor child. You need not be frightened."_

_Her eyes fluttered open, their surface glossy and her gaze no longer fixed on the vanity before her, but rather off into the distance as the whole of her being focused on that _Voice_ – the presence that did more than instruct. It encouraged, it chided, it inspired, it disciplined, it comforted and, occasionally, even teased. It was her one true and constant friend and companion since the night it had entered her soul with song on the roof of the Opera Populaire three years prior. It guided her through her tears, it inspired her to new heights, and it saw into her core – a place even her father had merely brushed, but never entered. There were times, as she sang under its tutelage, that her ability to tell where she ended and that presence began was eliminated. Christine's cheeks flushed and her breathing quickened in response to the Voice._

"_Maestro… I've never… I don't…"_

_She could hear the self-confident smile in that chuckle once again as it shushed her gently. "Dear girl, this I promise you. I have never felt you more ready for this than I do at this moment. You will capture the soul of every aristocrat in the audience, you will command the attention of every rat and scene-changer in the wings. You are Mademoiselle Christine Daae, daughter of Gustave Daae, and you house the most divine voice this world has ever known." Her eyes closed again in rapture as the Voice seemed to get closer, and she imagined she could feel its breath upon her bared neck. She shuddered in response and the voice lowered to a measured, intimate murmur. "…and should you look into that audience, should you feel fear, should your nerves threaten to betray you, and should you dare to forget all that I have taught you, remember this – I will be watching, I will be listening, and, when you are done, I will be waiting."_

_Christine gasped and her eyes flew open as a heavy knock resounded upon the door. "Five minutes, Mademoiselle." She looked down, then, and found herself suddenly unable to breathe as her eyes fell upon the vanity before her, where a single blood red rose lay in offering. With reverence, she picked it up, carelessly allowing her finger to be pricked by one of the razor-sharp thorns. She hissed in response, raising her finger to her lips to catch the single drop of crimson that threatened to drop onto that perfect, virginal gown. Looking about the room, she saw no sign that anyone else had been there._

"_Mon Ange… Maestro… If I please you tonight, may I…" she swallowed heavily, her nerves now replaced by something entirely different – an eagerness, near to desperation. "May I see you? _Finally_, Maestro?"_

_All that met her in response was the silence of the room, although the presence was still there – reassuring, calming, strengthening but unyielding. Carefully, she placed the rose back on the vanity and, back straight and head held with a confidence that she hadn't felt before, she turned and left the dressing room and walked into the den of wolves that awaited her on stage._

"Dinner!"

Dinah's voice was altogether too chipper for Joaquin, who looked up at her reflexively and then allowed his face fall back into his plush pillow. He grunted in response – part objection, part resignation. Dinah noted immediately that the pile of books that she'd brought up to him earlier that day for his entertainment laid untouched, and she pouted visibly, her lip jutting out in protest.

"I thought you liked books on history," she said, placing the tray near the head of young man's cot within his reach. Crouching there, she picked up the book from the top of the stack. "_The Spanish Armada,_" she read, "That has to be at least marginally interesting, right?"

Joaquin merely sighed in response, face still buried in linens. Dinah frowned, kneeling next to the bed and reaching out to rest her unmarred hand on his shoulder. "Joaquin, are you…?"

The girl snatched her hand back as soon as it touched his skin, as if she had just been bitten. Her eyes widened into saucers as she looked at her fingertips and then back at Joaquin, whose exposed shoulder lay before her – unmoving, as if it was challenging her to dare repeat her last action. Hesitating but a moment, she reached out again, slowing as she grew within millimeters of the boy's flesh, feeling the heat radiating off of him in waves.

Dinah stood abruptly, knocking over the glass of cool water she'd brought up for him, and backed up to the door, unable and unwilling to remove her eyes from the boy whose lean and mutilated form lay prone on the cot, the hair at his temples and the nape of his neck wet with sweat. "_No…_" she whispered, half prayer and half denial. She reached behind her, feeling for the door handle clumsily, her eyes clouding with tears until she found purchase and wrenched the door open, forcing herself out of the room. It wasn't until the door had been soundly closed behind her that her shrill voice, typically heard only in whispers and quiet acknowledgements, could be heard reverberating throughout the house in a panicked scream.

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><p>Erik had been dreaming, he was sure of it. Bizarre dreams infused with the scent of Jasmine and Vanilla – scents that seemed to be part of everything that he'd ever associated with Christine. Dreams that bore her eyes, her lips, her gentle touch. Dreams that surrounded him with the dark glare of a small mob catching him in a back alley for the last of the marks he'd been carrying at the time, leaving him broken and bleeding in an alley. Dreams of a young, twisted face looking at him in trepidation and compassion. Dreams of a gift, and an angel's embrace.<p>

He groaned as he sat up, groggy and dreadfully thirsty. He blinked into the dim light of the room, his eyes adjusting to being used again, and they focused quickly on the cup and small pitcher of water that had been left for his use. Taking these eagerly, he poured himself a glass, then another, and continued doing so until the pitcher was mostly empty. Still, there was a lingering aftertaste that would not leave his mouth. His tongue moved thickly behind his teeth, eyes narrowed as he evaluated the flavor. Laudanum. Brilliant. Someone's been keeping him drugged.

The room surrounding him was quaint and, if nothing else, excessively feminine. Bright yellows, soft pinks and vibrant greens greeted him from the walls and the upholstery. The furniture was simple, but well made, including the bed he was perched upon. Erik moved to stand, and groaned again, falling back upon the mattress as his chest screamed at him in response. He looked down, pulling away the linen sheet he'd been holding to his chest, and frowned at what he saw there.

So, that hadn't been a dream, after all. That night in the alley – drunk and stumbling through the back end of Paris, skulking not far from his old home, wandering in search of relief he could neither define nor achieve – he had passed out with fatigue and emotional exhaustion. He had spent the majority of the evening in a dingy tavern, drinking cheap cognac with his hat drawn low over his face, and the bandaging he'd lifted from a small abbey outside of the city wrapped securely to hide his grotesque features. With each glass he downed, he prayed he would stop feeling the stares of the locals on his back. For once – by God in Heaven, _for ONCE_ – could he not be just left in peace? Finally unable to stand his own company any longer, Erik stumbled out of the tavern with the intent of finding one of his old entrances and crawling back to the house on the lake. After years of wandering aimlessly across the continent, he finally succumbed to its siren's song and determined that the time had finally arrived – it was time to go _home_, crawl into the black, musty coffin, and sleep. _Don Juan_ was long since finished, he had no excuse to avoid his promise from years back to die, alone, with it clutched in his long fingers.

However, Fate had other plans for him. _She often does, for me,_ he thought, wryly. He had passed out on the way to the entrance, and been discovered by a half dozen helpful denizens who recognized immediately that he was laden by the burden of his fine coat and hat, and the weighty purse that jingled with the last of the coins that he'd retrieved. When he resisted the ministrations of their insistent paws, he was met with a rain of blows that awakened a demon that had been forced into slumber the night he watched Her eyes turn back towards him – in _what?_ Agony? Despair? Regret? Relief? – and disappear as her young lover ushered her into safety. Away from Hell.

…and to think he wanted to condemn her there – his Persephone, dragged into the depths of the Underworld to be wedded to, bedded by, bound to a monstrosity whose perversion was so stark that it had been revealed in his flesh at birth.

In that act – sending his Angel back into the light of the sun – his sacrifice became his exoneration. In the pit of despair, he felt freedom – his regret and his broken heart overshadowed by the knowledge that at least she would be happy, be safe, and live the life she was meant to lead.

It was her eyes, then – those brown pools carrying the promise of Autumn's harvest, the clarity of the first frost – that were foremost in his mind as the demon's fight succumbed to drunkenness, weakness, and the sheer overpowering brutality of six angry, avaricious men. When the first blade plunged into his side, he could only see her in his arms, high above the crowd of the Opera Populaire, her eyes heavily lidded with unabashed desire, her cool hands willing his hot palms to wantonly roam her body while hundreds watched in fascination. Her name was on his lips when he succumbed to the darkness. He had no intention of waking ever again.

…but there's always Fate, isn't there? Fate, who sent Giry to his cell decades earlier with a heart that yearned to assist the weak and forgotten. It was Fate that put Christine in her hands, as well, and Fate that put him on the catwalk that first night he'd heard her singing to herself on the darkened stage of the opera, long after the lights had been quenched and the performers had moved on to more pleasurable pursuits. It was Fate that placed him and his cat eyes high above the seats of the theater, barely catching the shimmers of the girl's dark curls as she knelt contentedly in the dark – unafraid, but with a lilt to her voice that spoke only of loss and loneliness. A voice that would haunt his dreams until he finally gave in and began to haunt hers in return, a voice that reached to places inside of him that he'd never dared think could be touched by any creature, mortal or otherwise. A voice that caressed his heart, embraced his soul, that offered of itself without reservation to his ministrations. A voice that challenged his denial in the afterlife… a voice that convinced him that Angels do, indeed, exist.

Erik took a deep, steadying breath, his arm wrapped around his aching abdomen as he forced himself into a standing position, steadying himself on the headboard of the bed. The dreams he'd had since he'd been attacked in that alleyway – dreams infused with the very essence of his angel – he considered them momentarily before his sheet fell away. He scowled at the pale, bare skin that greeted him, and wondered for precisely how long he'd allowed himself to lie nude in some strange girl's bed. A linen robe lay at the foot of the bed, and he shuffled toward it to cover himself. As he pulled it to his lean frame, a small piece of cloth fell out of it. Cinching the belt loosely about his waist, he bent over to see what had fallen, and his breath caught as he brought it to his face.

It was a red and white gingham scarf.

Erik looked at the scarf in a mute stupor, unable to process the new information. If that hadn't been just a dream, then…?

His eyes darted about the room, looking for something – anything – to identify the bedroom's owner. No photos, no books, no jewelry, nothing precious and nothing identifying. He snarled in frustration, the scarf clutched in a tight fist, but his frustrations ceased immediately when his gaze fell back on the tray that had been left within arm's reach of the bed. The tray he'd retrieved the water from, and had been too groggy to truly comprehend what he was looking at. On that tray, lay a single blood red rose with a white satin ribbon lovingly tied in a bow around its stem.

Long, thin fingers reached down to grasp the flower, and he raised its bloom to his nose instinctively, taking a deep breath of its stunning fragrance as he had with each of the roses he'd chosen for her so long ago. The scent burst through the fog of memory and laudanum-induced deliriums and suddenly, clearly, he could remember her breath cool on his feverish neck as he sobbed in her embrace, the touch of her hand to his face as he drifted to sleep, the feel of her hand in his when he awoke.

"Christine..."

Rose grasped firmly in his hand, he made his way quickly but unsteadily to the door of the bedroom, and threw it open. At the end of the hallway, two sets of eyes - one bright blue and rimmed with freshly spilled tears, and the other a warm and reassuring brown - met his golden gaze. The girl was being cradled in the arms of his Angel, her sobs ceased only due to his sudden appearance. They looked at him in shock, and he looked at Her in wonder.

"Christine..." he repeated, before exhaustion took him once again, and he fell to the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** _My apologies for the significant delay in updating. My personal life has taken a drastic, yet anticipated, turn and as such it is very difficult to write Romance. Instead, I would refer you to the One-shot that can be found on my profile page by the title of __**Opera Ghost**__, whose tale suited my recent moods far, far better (and was inspired by my costume for a local Carnivale this month). Once again, to those of you who have reviewed – thank you. To the anon who attempted to give me a kick in the rear – thank you, as well. I hope this update feeds your need to see this story move forward._

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><p>"You cannot possibly expect me to stay in this bed, Christine!"<p>

Christine sighed, her hand covering her eyes in frustration as she willed her voice to stay as calm as she could. "I cannot argue with you about this right now. I have an emergency to take care of, and I cannot handle everything at once!"

The man before her stood obstinately, his thin hand gripping the post of the headboard tightly, using its stability to stay upright in his weakened state. His golden eyes burned in defiance, however – as strong and as forceful as ever. "You intend to _leave me here_ while you run your errands? Christine, it's been _five years_, and you will just leave me…?"

Stepping forward, the young woman gently but firmly took the pitiful creature's hands in hers, feeling them tremble even as his twisted face presented her with a carefully hewn mask of authority. She smiled at him, then, her mouth turned upwards at the corners but the joy not quite reaching her eyes, which were filled with worry. "Mon Ange," she whispered, "I am not leaving you. I promise you this. But, I cannot tarry. Every moment lost is a sacrifice, and he deserves everything I can provide."

"_He_…?" His eyes narrowed at this, jealousy flowering in his dark heart. He tried to pull his hands away from hers in scorn, only to find her gripping them even more tightly, her eyes both eager and defiant as they gazed into his. He huffed in derision. "Shall I guess - the _Vicomte_, then? Does he call you away from me yet again, after all this time?"

"… Mistress?"

Both Phantom and Ingénue turned as one towards the door as Dinah stood in the frame, her arms laden with fresh washcloths and a pail of cool water. Her eyes were still red with worry, and her brow furrowed in the agony of the unknown.

"Please, Mistress…"

Christine nodded, and grasped a warm, thin hand, pulling it to her face, pressing its welcome warmth against her cool cheek in reassurance. His breath shuddered at the shock of this intimate gesture, and after just a moment, she could feel the pad of his thumb gently stroke her soft skin there while his eyes gazed on her in astonishment. A lifetime of longing was expelled in his whispered breath. "Christine…"

With a deftness that would make him question if he had imagined it, she turned her face and brushed her lips against his palm before stepping away. "I promise I will explain everything later. You can ask me whatever you like, but please – stay here and rest. I must take care of this." With this, the young woman bustled out of the room, following closely behind the blonde that rushed to the end of the hall, leaving the tall, thin shell of a man behind. He looked after her with golden eyes widened still in shock, the cool breath of a snowfall tingling upon the palm of his hand.

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><p>Marta knew just as well as Christine what it meant when tray after tray of broth and beverage was coming back to the kitchen from the boys' dormitory with less and less of the meals consumed. It wasn't a tremendous surprise, then, when she saw Dinah rush into the kitchen with tears running down her cheeks and sounding the alarm about Joaquin's developed fever. Marta sighed as Christine held the girl in a tight embrace, and had begun gathering the washcloths and preparing the cool water as the girl led their Mistress back upstairs to confirm the development and next steps. Marta was familiar with them by now – cool the children down, keep them comfortable, give them what they could handle, and summon the physician. After that point, it was simply a waiting game, and since she'd been here helping Christine care for her Angels, she'd seen far less than half of the children pull through once they were gripped by that terrible fever.<p>

The older woman shook her head. To go slowly, and in pain – surely, this was a destiny that God himself couldn't intend for anyone, much less the most innocent of his children?

She had sent Dinah ahead with a pail full of clean water and an armful of washcloths, and prepared to follow along behind. Marta knew quite well that despite the boy's deceptively frail form, Joaquin would be far too big for Christine to carry to the quiet room on her own.

When Marta had reached the top of the stairs, she noticed that the door to Christine's bedroom had been left ajar, and she could just make out the thin, tall frame of Christine's charge with his back towards the door, gazing down at his hand. There was something forlorn and lost about the figure that tugged momentarily at the woman's heart, and she suddenly felt very uncomfortable, as if her mere gaze were causing her to intrude upon something terribly private. Casting her eyes away, she approached the door to the boys' dormitory and looked inside, where Christine was tenderly brushing sweat-slicked locks away from Joaquin's face, her own face coolly masking the worry in her eyes.

"Are you ready, my dear?" Marta murmured, unwilling to let her normally boisterous voice disturb the lad resting before them. Christine nodded, and they set to work – Marta taking the boy's torso as gently as possible, allowing his head to rest on her arm, and Christine gingerly holding the boy's long legs. Slowly, they made their way to the room at the end of the hall, to allow him some seclusion, and Marta noted with displeasure that the boy was nearly light enough that she believed Christine could have, indeed, carried him herself if it were required.

No, this wasn't good at all.

Dinah was waiting next to the cot in the quiet room, a washcloth wet and wrung between her impatient hands. Her eyes widened as she watched Joaquin be carried to the bed but, to her credit, did nothing but watch as the two older women laid him upon the clean, fresh linens, taking great care not to jostle his significant wounds. As soon as they had him settled, Dinah fell upon him with her stack of washcloths, gently lying fresh, cool water across his back and arms, all the way down to his thighs. The two women watched her briefly before Christine turned to Marta, mouthing, "Go. Hurry," to the woman.

Marta nodded. It was time to summon the doctor, and the boy's parents.

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><p>Christine gazed down at the blonde girl who knelt before her, watching Dinah work diligently and quickly to provide Joaquin's feverish body some modicum of relief. The girl worked efficiently, addressing her tasks matter-of-factly and without any form of hesitation. Christine bit her lip briefly in contemplation, watching her eyes flit from task to task and betraying none of the panic that she had nearly collapsed under earlier. Some of this came from the girl's inherent strength and survival instinct, certainly, but she found herself worrying that what she was truly seeing unfold before her was denial – an unwillingness to accept any notion that would suggest that Joaquin was in any form of danger. She held back a sigh, and reached out to touch Dinah's golden crown of locks in reassurance. The girl turned in response to offer a small smile, as if to convince both of them that everything was going to be okay.<p>

"We need to prepare dinner for the rest of the children, Dinah. Would you prefer to stay here with Joaquin, or would you like me to stay while you warm dinner?"

It was a foolish question, of course – Christine knew that Dinah would choose to stay before the girl opened her mouth to speak her desires, but Christine wanted to give her a chance to voice her opinion, regardless. Patting the girl gently upon the head, Christine smiled and nodded, and slid out of the room as quietly as possible.

The door closed with a soft click behind her, and Christine's ears perked momentarily to listen to the activity of the household. The upper floor was silent beside her quiet breathing, and the sound of bubbling joy from the children downstairs was evident as they played in the foyer and the library, waiting patiently for dinner to be served. Christine pursed her lips and, with only a moment's hesitation, strode with cat-like tread to her bedroom on the other end of the hallway. She opened the heavy door to see Him standing at the window, peering out of the drawn curtains at the summer evening unfolding below. He was dressed in dark brown pants, just a hair too short for his long frame, and he wore a clean shirt, carefully tucked into the waist of his pants.

She leaned against the doorjamb for a moment before speaking, enjoying watching his ever-alert form take in the world around him, and cognizant of the fact he was as acutely aware of her presence as she had always been of his. "You found Marta's gift, I see."

He did not turn to respond. "Marta?"

She stepped into the room, the skirts of her dress whispering against the thick rug on the floor as she approached him. She felt him stiffen momentarily as she stepped in close to him, her shoulder nearly brushing against his arm as she pulled the curtain to one side so she could gaze outside, as well. "She tends to the household. With all of the children here, I need as many hands as I can get access to. She has a son whose clothing she brought in so you could have something more comfortable to wear. I will send for you to have something more suitable as soon as possible, of course."

He did not respond to the information, not that she'd anticipated he would, but his amber eyes flickered down to rest upon her while she looked outside at the people bustling below. His eyes regarded her with careful measure, the frantic beating of his heart masked carefully by strictly controlled breathing, and a stoicism borne of years of practice.

She turned her head, regarding his unmasked face with an openness that nearly took his breath away as he met her quiet gaze. "I would like to show you something," she murmured, reaching out to take his warm fingers between her cool palms. "Would you be willing to join me downstairs?" The warring look of hope and fear in his eyes at this question tugged at her heart, and her gaze filled with tender compassion as her hand reached up, pressing its coolness reassuringly against his warm, unblemished cheek. He closed his eyes, unable to avoid expelling a shuddering breath as he leaned into her palm. "Mon Ange, you will be welcomed here," she whispered, the reverence clear in her hushed tones, "Do you trust me?"

His eyelids fluttered open and his pained eyes – eyes both eager and fearing to trust – looked down into hers. In the back of his mind, he remembered the visage of the girl in the red and white gingham scarf, and her two faces a cruel mirror of his. Christine gave him a warm smile, the pad of her thumb gently caressing his cheek in reassurance. His mouth opened and, before he could stop them, the words tumbled out. "With my life."

Her eyes glistened in response, and she squeezed his fingers with unabashed tenderness. "Follow me, then. There is much to discuss."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

**Author's Note:** I have the best readers. Thank you for your kind (and quick!) reviews. This is another short chapter (my apologies), but I think this will flow better if I break it off here before getting into something that will likely be a bit more serious. Enjoy.

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><p>"<em>Insolent boy! This slave of fashion, basking in <em>your_ glory! Ignorant fool! This brave young suitor, sharing in _our_ triumph!"_

_Christine trembled, fear crawling up her spine and tears prickling at the back of her eyes as the Voice shook the room around her, vibrating the very air that touched her skin. No! She was so close to finally seeing her angel, and now her brief encounter with Raoul may have ruined everything._

"_Angel!" she cried out, "I hear you! Speak, please – I will listen!" She whirled about, looking at the walls, the ceiling, the mirror, the darkened corners in hopes of seeing her Maestro and convincing him of her devotion. The long skirts of the opulent satin dressing gown that had been left for her as a gift, complete with a rich red rose whose scent was as deep and sweet as the finest of wines, whispered at her feet as she turned, begging for the chance to be heard, to make things right. "Stay by my side, Maestro. Guide me!" Brown eyes were wide and pleading, her full red lips pouting in protest as she sought her Angel's favor. She swallowed her nerves, willing her frantic heart to calm itself as she cast her eyes down in penitence, her tutelage as an actress by her Angel wrapping her like a shroud. She took a deep breath, casting her eyes heavenward. "Angel," she beseeched, "my soul was weak. Please forgive me. Enter at last, my Master."_

_The frightening rumble in the air dissipated like a passing storm, and a chuckle resounded in its place, caressing her ear with its welcoming warmth. "Flattering child," it murmured – both a rebuke of her act and a proud acknowledgement of her use of the skill He had taught her. "You shall know me. Come, look at your face in the mirror."_

_The girl's head turned, her brown, shining curls trembling with anticipation as she focused on the gaudy, gold-trimmed mirror across from her dressing table. Satin slippered feet stepped with trepidation across the lush carpeted floor until she stood before the massive piece of glass. Her eyes searched the glass in confusion, her body close enough that her breath caused just a hint of fog on the otherwise perfect surface. Her eyes finally focused on herself, and she stepped back reflexively, finally seeing what she imagined her Angel had been looking at the entire time – before her stood not a girl, not the child who had lost her father just a few years prior, but a fully blossoming woman in the flower of her youth. Her hair was pulled back with just a hint of modesty, pins holding back the curls that cascaded behind her shoulders and down much of her back. The makeup from her performance still graced her skin – not the gaudy mix that La Carlotta had chosen in order to mimic the flush of youth, but more subtle, natural tones that complimented Christine's natural beauty. The gown that had been left for her flowed like rippling waves in a cream silk, accented with sequins and fine crystal beads. The ensemble wrapped itself like a lover around her dancer's frame, gently caressing her bodice and abdomen before falling gracefully to the floor in a long train behind her, the thigh-high scalloped slit to the side offering only the most brief and tasteful of hints of the flesh that waited within._

_She caught her breath as she looked at herself – _truly_ looked at herself – in the glass before her. Her eyes widened and she heard a faint murmur of approval from behind her. Her eyes darted to the glass to look over her shoulder, but there was no one there. She was alone in the room._

"_You see, at last, Christine."_

_The words spilled from her lips as she stared at herself in awe. "What are you showing me, mon Ange?"_

_The pride could not be concealed from the Voice as it answered. "You finally see what I have seen in you all this time, dear child… and now, the world sees it, as well. You are a talent that this dark world has starved for, a light in the fog that will usher forth the next great age of music… _our_ music."_

_Christine swallowed, the velvet richness of his voice invading her senses and commanding her, enveloping her to the point where she no longer heard anything _but_ that Voice, saw nothing but the youthful yet seductive Angel that stood before her in the mirror, staring back at her with a wanton, frank desire that she would never have known possible. So enrapt was she that the escalating queries on the other side of the locked door behind her went unheard, unheeded._

_The voice thrummed in her ears, reaching deep within her soul, caressing the beats of her heart, filling her lungs with its essence. "Is that what you desire, Christine? Do you still dare to seek the secrets of your dark Angel?"_

"_Mon Ange de musique, mon tuteur, mon protecteur… grant me your vision. Hide no longer. Come to me, strange Angel."_

Christine led him gently out of the room that he'd been sequestered in and, in spite of his protest to the contrary, insisted upon having him use her for support as the two of them slowly descended down the narrow, carpeted stairway leading to the main floor. His gait was unsteady after days of convalescing and without even the most basic of sustenance that he'd trained his body to become accustomed to, but his hands… ah, Holy Mother, his hands were just as nimble, just as lithe and strong as she had remembered. She flushed momentarily when she first wrapped his arm around her before taking the first step down, remembering the last time he had touched her so – the staged fires of the opera unfolding around them paling in comparison to the fire that his touch stoked in her breast. She had cast her eyes down, then, hoping he hadn't seen the warmth creep up her porcelain neck and onto her cheeks. To his credit, he said nothing once his protests had ended and it was evident that she would not listen to his insisting that he was, indeed, _not_ an invalid. This hadn't kept him from studying her in the light of stair as she led him down, eyes cast at their feet to guide them together, cheeks flushed with youthful modesty as he allowed her to direct him downstairs, into the light of the day and towards the bubbling and strangely musical sounds of the household below.

She had told him to trust her. Somehow, impossibly, he had agreed to do so, although the mere notion of trusting anyone at all railed against his very nature. This trust was new and unwelcome to his heart – unfamiliar and uninviting, and it did not quell the sickness that gripped his stomach as his anxiety worsened with each step. He fought the sickness on dual fronts, first telling himself that this was merely a test and that, once failed, he would have an excuse to leave his Angel, his goddess, behind him and return to the task upon which he'd originally set – to die alone and unloved in the dark of the catacombs beneath the city. On his second front, however, he played a game of distraction against the growing sickness of fear at his core by examining the visage of the woman who had wrapped one arm about his waist, offering him her stability and her strength as she guided him down to the personal Hell that he was certain awaited him there.

Why he had agreed to this, he couldn't begin to guess. The strongest, most vocal part of his psyche refused to acknowledge the small child within who looked to this vision before him in hope – hope that perhaps he could finally find the comfort he'd missed for his entire life, the love he'd determined would never be available to him, perhaps even a place to call Home. No, this was nothing but another test, and one that she'd failed before, would fail again, and would give him permission to finally seek release in the confines of a casket deep under the earth, his body wracked with the pain of ingesting enough arsenic to take down a horse. It was just a matter of time.

…and yet…

When he looked down at the girl – no, the _woman_ – who led him so carefully, so tenderly to the bottom of the stairs, he couldn't help but feel that uncomfortable and strange sensation in his chest. Was it hope? It had been so long since he'd experienced it. Even in the depths of his lair beneath the Opera house, as he sat and composed with a fluidity that overtook him like rushing waters with her presence so close, he had never dared feel _hope_. He knew then that all it would take was one glimpse of his monstrous face to end it all, to make her realize the pact she'd made with the devil himself. No, he may have known anticipation or even joy at the thought of the two of them creating music that would command the attention of the globe, but there was no _hope_. Months later, as the two of them stood knee-deep in the bone-chilling waters of the lake with her lips caressing his – tentatively at first, and then with a blossoming passion that he had known all along lurked within her – he had not felt hope.

So, why hope now? What had changed? A few glances, a handful of fleeting touches obviously made out of abject pity were not enough to cause this modification in a personality that he had so deliberately perfected over the decades of his life on Earth, below ground.

He regarded her again with a more discerning eye. _His_ Christine, years later, a grown woman. For the first time he noticed the corners of her eyes, beginning to show the tell-tale wrinkles of the aging woman - eyes that showed evidence of a lifetime of smiles and tears alike. Her hair, once a shining beacon of health and vitality, was now braided and bound tightly behind her head, the once thick and unruly curls that he considered a hallmark of her independent spirit pulled back into a demure and matronly bun, the shine of youth dulled by either age or neglect. Her frame, once lush and blossoming with the strength of a dancer was thinned, the hands that still bore strength as they helped him stay aright showing the structure of her skeleton beneath her pale skin, her wrist bones prominent. Her nails, which had once been manicured nearly on a daily basis as the rats of the ballet offered their grooming services to each other, were shortened and ragged, and her skin showed the evidence of labor.

She stopped, looking up at him questioningly, as he had stopped his meticulous descent. "Is something wrong?" she asked, worry tainting her voice.

His eyes narrowed, brow furrowed in puzzlement. "You've changed, Christine."

Christine flushed at this, her mouth set at a stubborn and unpleasant angle. "We all change, mon Ange."

"No," he stated firmly, refusing to allow her to nudge him down another step, "you have _changed_. This house, your appearance, your hands, Christine. You have hands that have seen _labor_." He scowled, a cold realization settling in his stomach. Of course. _The Vicomte._ "That _fop…_" he spat, venom dripping from his voice. "If I find that he's cast you aside, I swear, Christine…"

He found cool fingers covering his lips before he could voice his deadly threat, and looked down into the brown eyes of his Angel, which met him with an unfamiliarly stern gaze before she removed her hand and then pointed a slim index finger inches away from his nose. "_No_. There will be _no threats_, _no tantrums_ in here. I do not tolerate it from the children, and I will not tolerate it from you. I promised you an explanation, mon Ange, and if you would just follow me…"

A high-pitched shriek interrupted them, and a mop of blonde curls flew by the bottom of the steps, followed closely behind by a young man hobbling along on a pair of crutches nearly as quickly as most young men would run. Following closely behind him, a girl with long, wavy brown hair ran along, giggling with unbridled mirth, her heavily scarred right arm carrying a _potato_, of all things, and chasing after the other two using the tuber as an apparent threat. The two regarded the children who flew by, and Christine turned back to look up at her Angel. Seeing the look of utter shock almost bordering on horror that masked his face, her hand flew to her mouth. Her wide brown eyes were crinkled at the corners when he looked to her for an explanation and, finding herself unable to provide one, she merely released the bubbling laughter that she had tried to hide so inexpertly. His indignation only increased at this, which simply served to make her laughter all the more all-consuming. Doubled over, Christine released him in order to catch herself on the railing until she could, gasping for air, finally collect herself.

Wiping tears from her eyes, she offered him one of the most welcoming and truly joyful smiles that had ever been cast his way. "I think it's time for you to meet the children."

The children that Christine had gathered were six in number, and she explained that the remaining two were upstairs, and he had already met Dinah. Musette, Pol, Phillipe, Catherine, Thaddeus, and Maria gathered in the sitting room, where Christine introduced each of them to her very uncomfortable Angel, explaining that he was an old friend of hers and would be staying with them for some time. She introduced each of children in turn, and it was apparent as each of them politely offered their greetings where their injuries lay. Pol was the first to speak up, having scrutinized his face for long enough. "Mistress…?"

Christine squirmed internally, knowing that the last thing her former mentor was to be given undue attention, but hoping that the realization of the trauma these children had experienced would temper his shame. "Yes, Pol?"

Pol frowned and turned his gaze back to the lean stranger that stood before him. "… what's his _name_?"

Christine blinked, her jaw falling open in automatic response before it snapped shut again with a faint _click_. She turned to her Angel, her mouth now hanging slightly agape and eyes questioning. It was his turn to offer her a barely contained wry grin, the eyebrow on the unblemished side of his face arching as he enjoyed watching her squirm. "What is it, Mademoiselle Daae? Cat got your tongue?"

Her lower lip jutted out in response, her pout painfully familiar after all of these years, and his smile softened. He turned back to Pol. "You may call me Erik."

The boy appeared satisfied with this, and nodded in approval even as Erik heard his name whispered to his right. Turning to Christine, his ruined face gazing upon her perfect countenance, he saw something he could not identify in her eyes as a half smile fluttered upon her lips. She cleared her throat, and he could swear he could see the shimmer of tears developing in her eyes. "Yes," she said, her smile growing in pleasure, "his name is Erik." A small, pale hand casually brushed a non-existent lock of hair away from her eyes, then, but not before he caught the brief glimpse of a crystalline tear dropping from her lashes, quickly brushed away by deft and expert fingers. "His name is Erik."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Erik sat at the roughly-hewn table, a strongly brewed cup of fragrant black tea steaming before him as he watched his Angel bustle about the kitchen as she prepared dinner for the household. He had since ceased insisting on assisting her only upon her acknowledgement that if he proved stronger the next day, he be allowed to help her with the seemingly endless household chores. It was then that she set the delicate china cup and saucer before him, a small decanter of heavy cream and a cinnamon stick placed nearby. She had laughed at his amazed countenance once he had taken a deep whiff of the fragrant tea, her girlish, dulcet tones a balm to his pained, hungry ears. "Did you think I had forgotten?" she asked.

Indeed, he had. He had just assumed that those precious few days at his house by the sunken lake were treasured by him and him alone – why would she care to remember them? How could she possibly do so with any semblance of favorability when it had all ended so terribly, his bared and twisted face raging at her trembling, mewling form when she foolishly had unmasked him? And yet, here she was, smiling at him in hope and approval as the familiar scent of exotic spice wafted from the cup. She was waiting for him – no longer the child that he had raised from obscurity, but a fully grown woman with genuine confidence, yet still awaiting that _look_ from him that said, "Well done, my child."

Carefully, he added a small amount of the cream, and used the cinnamon stick to stir – fifteen circular swirls through the mixture, counterclockwise – and the scent of the cinnamon slowly filled the kitchen. Setting the stick aside, he bent gingerly over the table, raising the delicate porcelain to his lips, and he took a careful sip of the steaming, exotic, spiced concoction. The flavor filled his mouth, its familiarity a welcome friend in a strange but warm abode, and he looked up at her as he carefully set the cup back to its resting place.

"Where did you find this?" he asked in wonder. "How could you possibly have found the exact same blend?"

She smiled again. "Mariage Frères. I had tried some of the lesser shops first, and then I realized that you would have only obtained the best. I described it to Henri and Edouard, and we whittled it down to this very blend within a few months." Those beautiful, stunning brown eyes glittered in amusement as they regarded him. "You have excellent taste, according to the Mariage Brothers. Expensive, too. This is one of the few allowances I make, and only rarely… but I had to have it near me."

Erik's mouth moved before he could stop it, "Must you? Why?"

Christine swallowed heavily, the glittering in her eyes turning abruptly into a shining mask of emotion threatening to spill over her thick lashes. "I had to have it near me, because… it reminded me of you." She cast her eyes down, as if making a difficult decision, before sitting across from her Maestro and mentor, and reaching one thin, pale hand across the table to rest on his warm flesh. "You were – I _thought_ you were – gone. The Opera House was destroyed. I tried to find my way back to the lake, but the damage was too extensive." Her voice trembled, and the cool, clear tears fell freely past her lashes. "I couldn't get to you, I couldn't mourn you, and I didn't have anything of yours to hold close to me…"

His heart clenched in his chest, throat tight as he watched his Angel begin to weep before him, the memory of the loss she had felt overtaking her normally stoic countenance. He rose as she covered her face with her hands, and he knelt beside her chair, desperate to stop the tears that now flowed freely between her delicate fingers. "Christine…"

She turned to him, her eyes rimmed in red as she regarded him. She bit her lower lip as she examined his countenance, and laid a cool palm against his scarred cheek as he met her gaze with unabashed concern. "Erik… you… you never knew, did you? I would have done anything for you. I would have sworn my life to you, but… you always kept yourself away from me, and then the same night you thrust me into Raoul's arms, you finally tell me the truth…"

Christine shook her head and looked away, her lids closed as her tears found their paths down her perfect face. Rising to his knees, Erik reached out his long, lean arms and circled her thin frame, pulling her close to him. She collapsed against him gratefully, suddenly very tired of having to hold herself aright, to keep her back stiff and strong, to keep her chin raised in hope and determination. Christine buried her face into the collar of Erik's roughly hewn shirt and threw her arms around his shoulders as she let her emotions go in relief and gratitude. Whispered within her sobs, he could just make out her strangled words, "You never told me you loved me, until it was too late…"

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><p><em>Shame. Shame, rage, and a blind need to see blood run through his fingers to match the red haze that obscured his vision. As he looked around what had once been his only sanctuary, he was vaguely aware that it was rapidly becoming his own version of Hell. Behind him, that idiot child that dared to try to steal his Angel from him hung precariously at the end of his lasso, and before him, the Angel herself stood in her bridal gown and looked at him in a terrible mixture of horror, disbelief, and disgust.<em>

_The darkness in those beautiful brown eyes smoldered with barely contained emotion, and her voice trembled. "Let him go."_

_The resulting laugh rang from the ceiling, shimmering along the disturbed waters of the lake, and she shuddered visibly as the two locked gazes. Had it come from his own lips? He supposed it had. "So soon, my dear child? But, the games have only just begun. I'm not through with this one," he snarled, jerking his arm ferociously, causing the struggling youth behind him to strangle further, his legs kicking futilely. "Nor, my fickle Angel, am I through with you."_

_The shaking of her voice subsided, replaced now by a trembling in her entire being, and Erik could see the hatred rolling off of her –, waves of cold creeping across the already chilled lake waters, and hitting him like a slap in the face. Finally, he thought, she was being honest with herself and with him. This hatred, this disgust of everything he is and ever could be was laid bare between them. How could he have ever thought it could be anything different? He met her ice cold gaze with his own fiery stare and a corpse's grin spread across his countenance._

"_It is time for you to choose, Christine. Your fate and his both lie in those treacherous little hands."_

"_What am I choosing, _Ghost_?" she spat in return, her fists clenched at her sides, the hem of her gown drinking in the lake waters, which slowly crawled up the fine satin and lace gown he'd so carefully constructed for their happy nuptials. Such a fool, he was. "Tell me and be done with it! I will not be a pawn in your games any longer."_

"_Truly, Christine? Do you think you can escape your Master's hand? Then, tell me – you can leave here today, and I will never follow. Choose the boy over me, and your life is your own, your future whatever you make of it." His grin broadened as he saw her eyebrow raised in skepticism. Smart girl. "The catch – your boy stays here with me, his corpse cold and alone at the bottom of my still lake."_

_Erik's heart leapt in a sick, twisted kind of joy as he saw her icy stoicism shatter with this, her lips paling noticeably along with the fine skin of her perfect face. Yes, Angel. But, it gets better._

"_But perhaps, dear child, you don't wish to live your life knowing that your lover's bloated corpse lies a mile deep beneath the streets of Paris? Poor, sensitive Christine. Would you see his dead eyes every night in your sleep as you live your life, when you marry, when you have children? Would he reach for you in supplication while you wilt away on your death bed? There is another choice…"_

_Those pale lips cracked open when his pause grew too lengthy, the tableau silent except for Raoul's ragged breathing and weakening struggles. "Speak, then. Give me my choice, you wretched, cruel thing."_

"_Isn't it obvious? Free your lover from his cold, wet fate…" his eyes glittered in triumph and greed, "and spend the rest of your years here, with me, as my bride."_

_Christine's eyes widened as he spoke, her pallor increasing as she swayed on her feet. Yes, my lovely little bird of paradise, he thought, you understand the weight of it all._

"_You… you wish for me to _marry _you? _That _is what this is about?" Her eyes burned, and cheeks suddenly flushed with life, the anger rising high in her breast as she stepped boldly forward into the waters of the lake, teeth bared as she spat, "You monstrous, foolish creature! You _kidnap_ me, you _destroy_ the opera house, you commit _murder_ and all because you want me as your _wife_?"_

_Erik was momentarily taken aback by the small woman wading angrily towards him, fire enough in her eyes to catch them both aflame. Remember yourself, Erik, he chided himself internally. There was naught she could do or say to make you waver. "Make your choice, you treasonous witch! Do you end your days with me, or do you send your precious lover to his grave?"_

_They faced each other over the water, Raoul's struggles suddenly forgotten as their eyes locked in mutual and overwhelming anger. Christine pointed a carefully manicured finger accusingly at him, the waters of the lake now soaking up into her carefully jeweled bodice. "You know _nothing _about me! Don't you presume to call _me_ treasonous when all I've ever tried to do was to make you proud of me, to make you happy with me!" Her voice thick with the tears that rapidly and freely flowed from her eyes, she choked, "I gave you my mind and soul _blindly _and you repay me with nothing but deception and betrayal! You are a foul creature from the pit of Hell itself!"_

_Seeing the child he had taken into his embrace before him, soaked and shivering, her eyes swollen with grief and anger, Erik had to steel his heart. The path is set, his choice was made, and there was no turning back. They were past the point of no return, he reminded himself. His beloved opera house was being reduced to cinders high above them, and his own actions had ensured that Christine could never see him as anything but a monster again. He swallowed the lump that was growing in his throat, stilled the frantic beating of his heart, and stepped forward, closing half of the distance between them. "Is it so horrible, Christine, this monstrous face, that you would even consider leaving him behind here in your Angel's embrace?" His voice trembled with emotion as he whispered to her, his resolve finally breaking as her eyes widened. He had laid down his cards, and she was going to call his bluff, leaving him behind with the corpse of her lover and return to the day light, to a world where she would never have to face her stalking gargoyle again. When he spoke again, there was naught but defeat there, a resolution to an ending that had no promise, no hope for the future. "I will not repeat myself. You try my patience, girl. Make your choice."_

_His eyes were cast to the water as he silently awaited her answer. It wasn't until the fully-soaked fabric of her dress entered his field of vision that he dared to raise his gaze, to confront those vengeful eyes one final time. When he looked up, he saw her perfect, beautiful hands gathered before her. "Pitiful creature of darkness," she spoke gently, one of those lovely hands reaching out to touch his, grasping his warm hand in her cool fingers and tugging it gently with more compassion than he could ever deserve, prompting him to look up into her eyes. Those eyes… Erik had never seen anything like them, even from his Angel. They were red and glistening with barely contained emotion, her brow furrowed in pity as she regarded him wholly. He felt as if he were being enveloped in those eyes, as if everything he was, had been, and would ever be was being assessed and, somehow, found to be worthy. "What kind of life have you known? If only you'd had the courage to see you were not alone…"_

_With these words she stepped forward, impossibly close to him, the chill of her soaked dress pressing against the heat of his bared chest as she reached up, her beautiful hands entwining behind his neck and pulling him down to her, her lips supple and open with welcome. His bloated lips pressed against hers, she opened her mouth slightly, a pink tongue pressing its way past two rows of perfect pearlescent teeth to touch his tainted mouth. He moaned in disbelief, his arms limp at his sides as he leaned into her embrace, his lips working in a dark waltz against hers and his eyes spilling hot tears._

_She pulled back with a small gasp, catching her breath with her lips open, eyes dark with frank desire as she looked up at his disbelieving face. The beauty, the innocence he had always prized her for was transformed then, the emotions of a mature woman now awakening in her gaze. Her hands moved to his face, caressing his cheeks – scarred and perfected alike – with a tenderness he had never known. He sobbed, then, just before she pulled him forward into another kiss. This time their arms wrapped around each other, both of them oblivious to the splash behind him as Raoul's lead was released and he fell into the waters with a hoarse gasp. Their hands entwined in each other's hair, lips pressed hotly against each other, tongues dancing, blood singing._

_Erik had never known anything like it._

_It wasn't until his incredibly sharp sense of hearing could discern the angry voices in the distance, followed by the frantic coughing of the fop behind him, that he realized what they were doing. His Angel, entwined in his arms, soon to be found with her young lover and her decimated mentor by the mob that rightly wanted his blood spilled on the cobblestones of the streets above. He would be seized, she would be seized, and her life ruined. They could run – but where could you run that the truth does not inevitably find you? No. This could not – could _never _happen._

_He pushed her away, more roughly than he intended, and felt her grab at his shirt sleeve to steady herself as he waded away from both of them, violently splashing in the water as he made his way back to the shore. "Take him. Forget me. Forget all of this."_

_Christine, dazed by the change in direction, looked blankly over to her young companion, who was wretching an already empty stomach into the waters surrounding him. Her eyes turned back to her Angel in confusion. "But…"_

"_Leave me alone! Forget all you've seen."_

"…_Christine…" Raoul's voice was weak and hoarse as he reached out to her with pleading eyes. "…please…"_

_She hesitated for a moment, her eyes on her Maestro's shuddering back, before she turned to Raoul and threw his arm over her shoulder, helping him to wade back to the ferry that had carried her there earlier. After leaving his panting form in the boat, she looked up to see that her Angel had disappeared. _

"_Angel! Please!"_

_Following the wet footsteps, she found herself in what she had assumed was his bedroom. A black lacquered coffin was open in the corner, its plush red velvet lining glowing in the candlelight. He sat, slumped over before the intricately detailed figurine of the Persian monkey, staring into its cold black eyes, his face a mask of pain._

"_Mon Ange…"_

"_Christine, please… go. Don't let them find you. Take the boat. Leave me here."_

_Ignoring his pleas, she stepped to him to beg him to join them. Expecting to meet his warm embrace once more, she was horrified when he lashed out, his arm cutting a wide swath between them as he screamed, "GO NOW! Go now and LEAVE ME."_

_Once more the frightened child, she regarded him with wide and terrified eyes, unsure of whether to listen to his commands or to her heart. Unwilling to give his ground, he refused to look up again into that beautiful face, those wide and trusting eyes, knowing that if he did he – no, _both _of them – would be lost. A movement to his right caught his eye, a brief and shining glittering light. He looked up to see the brilliant cut sapphire that had been her engagement gift resting on the music box, the Persian monkey's wide embrace encompassing it as if protecting it._

_He rose and stumbled from his bedroom in time to see Christine – brave, strong Christine – nearing the turn to the surface, the pitiful fop collapsed in the boat at her feet as she guided the vessel to the path back home. She looked back, her face forlorn and full of longing. As she disappeared, he whispered into the darkness of the caverns, his voice projecting far enough for any to hear, "Christine, I love you."_

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><p>When Marta arrived that early evening with the physician and Mr. &amp; Mrs. Dupres in tow, she was not surprised to see that dinner had been served and that six of the eight children were obediently and quietly enjoying their meal in the dining room. She wasn't entirely surprised to see that Christine's chair was untouched, and assumed that the young woman was tending to Joaquin upstairs. Leaving the tearful parents in the library, Marta sent the physician ahead to attend to the boy while she went to check on the kitchen.<p>

It wasn't that the kitchen was immaculate that surprised her, either, nor the familiar tray of food prepared to go upstairs – this time, with a silken black ribbon tied around a freshly plucked rose stem – but, it was the lanky gentleman standing before the sink, scrubbing the evening's dishes that made her catch her breath.

He was tall, certain – of that there was no question, as Christine's need for clothing had challenged her to raid her eldest son's closet and then to release the hems from his trousers. He stood with his back to her, seemingly oblivious to her presence as he worked, and a deep vibration of a Baritone's gentle hum reached her ears and resonated within her chest. The voice – soft as it was – was unlike any she'd heard before. Rich and beautiful, it filled the kitchen much like the gentle scent of a freshly-picked nosegay.

"May I help you, Madame?" The question was asked gently, but the low grumble contained therein suggested that he knew he had been watched, and did not approve in the least.

She stuttered. "Monsieur, I'm sorry. I was hoping to find Mlle. Daae in here."

"She is upstairs, and resting comfortably." He sighed softly, in mild irritation. "The children are fed and tended to. All is as it should be. Is there anything else...?"

Marta was nearly ready to excuse herself, to turn on her heel and flee the suddenly oppressive room, when it occurred to her – she was being dismissed. From _her_ kitchen, no less! The older woman drew herself to her full height. "Indeed, there is, Monsieur. I would like you to turn and greet me properly."

His back stiffened, and the scrubbing stopped immediately. "I beg your pardon?"

Marta sniffed at him in derision. "I hadn't imagined the man to steal that songbird's heart to be _deaf_. I asked you to turn around while you are in _my kitchen_, and greet me properly."

The air crackled with electricity momentarily as the two stood their ground – he with his back resolutely turned toward the door, and she in her summer coat and hat waiting impatiently for him to acquiesce. Then, his shoulders relaxed and moved softly as he chuckled, head shaking in disbelief.

"You must be Marta."

Maria came rushing into the room at that time, her bowl and spoon proudly carried before her like a trophy. "Ewik! I finished!"

He turned, then – the reflex of one who has sought the welfare of the innocent in the past. Marta's breath caught in her throat for just a moment, her shock not at the extent of the injury – his thinning scalp to the right and rear of his head combined with his bandaging when he'd arrived had certainly suggested that his injuries had been severe. What she had _not_ anticipated was the age of the scarring. If she hadn't thought she'd known better, she'd have sworn they were as old as the man himself.

"Yes, I see, Maria. You've done well. Now, go read in the library while everyone else finishes up." He took the bowl from her, and placed it in the sink, turning back to find her looking up at him expectantly. When she continued to stare, his tone grew annoyed. "...Well?"

Without a word, the child placed her index finger on her right cheek. Erik's brows knitted together as he mentally surveyed his own right cheek. Was he being mocked – by a _toddler_? But, Christine had insisted he trust her...

Marta laughed, then, seeing the grotesque form before her darken as his anger rose. "Monsieur, the child is asking you for something."

"Well, what in God's name does the girl want?"

The woman smiled. "She is asking you for a kiss."

"A... kiss?"

The child's head bobbled eagerly in response, her face shining in delight and anticipation. Bending at the waist, Erik's twisted face grew closer, watching the child in fascination. She wasn't drawing away from him, but leaning closer, her pudgy hand still pointing at her right cheek. Gently, he pressed his bloated lips to her soft, pink flesh, and nearly jumped in response when she hastily returned the gesture in kind, planting a kiss on his scarred flesh before scampering off obediently to the library.

Erik straightened, his eyes meeting Mart's amused gaze with a hint of wonder.

"You're a sight, then, aren't you?"

The wonder vanished immediately, his face flushing quickly with anger, the only thing keeping him from launching himself as the rotund woman being his sworn promise hours earlier to Christine to avoid any further outbursts. The warning rumbled low in his chest. "Madame..."

Marta waved off his warning carelessly. "Oh, save it. T'ain't anything I haven't seen before, here. What I didn't realize, however, was that you were this way when you knew her before. Those scars ain't five years old. Those scars aren't even _twenty_ years old." The woman offered him a knowing, genuine smile. "Stole her heart with a face like that, then? You must be something special, indeed, Monsieur. Of course, so is she."

He regarded her carefully, feeling as if in that single remark, his entire past had been laid bare by the woman before him. "Yes, she certainly is." He hesitated a moment, then stepped forward, bowing his head politely in greeting. "My name is Erik, Madame. It is my pleasure."

Marta smiled in satisfaction, nodding in greeting in return but allowing him his space. "...and I am Marta. A pleasure, Monsieur." She cast a look over her shoulder as the sound of heavy footsteps approached on the stairs. "I must be going." She looked back at the tray that was being prepared on the table and offered him another smile. "It will be a difficult night here, Monsieur Erik. Take care of that poor woman the best you can." With this, she left him alone in the kitchen, with a wet dishrag clutched in his hands.

"I swear it, Madame."

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><p><strong>AN: **I've made some minor changes to this chapter during lunch today, since I posted this half-asleep last night and without any true proofing. The changes are minor and don't alter the plot in any way. I'd like to thank each of you again for reading, and a special super-duper thank you to each of you (Anonymous and otherwise!) who have left and will leave reviews. This story compels me to see it to whatever conclusion it may reach, but those of you who review keep me honest, so to speak. Without you, I'd find other excuses to put this off for another week. So, thank you. I enjoy seeing how this unfolds just as much as you do, and you help inspire me to keep things moving forward.


	11. Chapter 11

_I thank you, my dear readers, for your patience as I wind my way through the minds of Erik and Christine and figure out how their tale relates to my own life and love. It is funny - embed yourself deep enough in a story like this, and it will begin teaching you truths about you and your relationships that you may not have known before. I hope you enjoy the latest installment._

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><p><strong>Chapter Eleven<strong>

Christine awoke that evening to the haunting scent of exotic spice, and smiled as she stretched her limbs in her familiar, comfortable bed. Her eyes ached, still – she had wept like a child in Erik's arms, finally collapsing into his embrace on the floor as he rocked her, and hummed an old Swedish lullaby. Quietly, she confessed to him her attempt to run headlong into the burning underground of the Palais Garnier, of being officially deemed hysterical by the de Chagny family's personal physician and kept quiet on forced doses of laudanum, of the heartbreak of thinking she had discovered Erik's death – alone and abandoned far beneath the earth. She told him of the looks she suffered from Raoul's parents and siblings, the whispered shame of him engaged not only to a performer, but one that had been abducted in full view of Parisian aristocracy mere moments after wantonly offering herself on stage to his eager, hungry touch.

He pulled her close and pressed his face into her bound hair, still scented with jasmine and vanilla, the thick curls loosening from their pins as she shook her head against his shoulder and told him of the day Raoul had finally – finally! – listened to her when she told him it was over. She told him how she had decided to return to the city, of her plan to do something with the tatters that remained of her life. She told him of her first Patron, the esteemed Madame Marguerite, who wrote her personal Attorney to have him send Christine enough for a modest property near the slums of the city, telling the girl with pride, "Here you are, child. Now, go show them what a woman can do."

She wept again into his collar and he leant to her his warmth as she told him in hushed tones of her first Angel, and the agony of watching him fade beneath her touch. She told him of her challenges, her triumphs, and her considerable love for each of the children who resided in the house, especially Dinah.

When she finally fell asleep in his embrace, the exhaustion of the weight of her burden finally laid down at the feet of the one person she could trust, he picked her up effortlessly. He cursed quietly when he realized just how much lighter she had become in the past five years, looking into her peaceful face with a mixture of awe and compassion. As he carried her upstairs, her face contentedly nestled into his shoulder, he reassured the worried children that she was perfectly fine, and she just needed her rest.

But no, she reflected as she stared at the molded plaster ceiling, it wasn't rest that she had needed. It was _safety_. It was the security of knowing that she was no longer alone, and that if she stumbled, she would be caught unquestioningly by someone who would never allow her to fall – by someone who loved her completely and unreservedly. Someone who knew how to love with his entire being, simply because he also knew what it was to hate with his entire being, and to be despised accordingly.

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><p>"<em>He loved you, you know…"<em>

_Christine sat next to a poorly stuffed cot in a plain room with Spartan furnishings, gently grasping the hand of the frail woman lying next to her. They both wore a somber black – she in a traveling gown that had successfully weathered the trip out to the cottage that had been in the Giry holdings for generations – and her former Mentor in a black lace and silk dressing gown, soaked with sweat. The younger woman wiped Antoinette's brow tenderly, as she resolutely fought to keep from reacting to the woman's statement._

"_I know he did, Madame," she whispered softly, her eyes trained on the cool cloth that was making its way across the elder woman's brow and then her sunken cheeks. Antoinette Giry, as much a shadow and ghost in the wings of the Opera Populaire as the Phantom himself, had wasted away not long after the dome to the main theater crumbled under the tremendous heat of the fire. Without her corps, she had suddenly lost her purpose. Meg, who had once been nothing but the most devout of daughters, had left Paris in a huff no more than a year after the Palais fell, leaving her mother alone for the first time in decades. Without family and without purpose, Antoinette Giry became listless, her appetite decreased, and now the doctors said that she had contracted Consumption. Christine had written Meg immediately once she'd discovered Giry's illness, but Meg was in America in a grand festival she called Coney Island. She was the star of her own act, dancing and singing for hundreds every evening, and Christine could nearly feel the heat of the crowd, see the flashes of light and sense the smells of the greasepaint and sweat of the back of the house when she read Meg's elaborate, excited letters back home. However, Meg was a world away, and neither she nor Antoinette had high hopes that the petite blonde would be able to return in time to see her mother off to her reward._

"_You loved him, too." Antoinette's sigh rattled in her chest, the accursed liquid within threatening to strangle her with the slightest of movements. "I could see it. Anyone who knew to look could see it, I'd think. The way you two looked at each other at the Bal Masque, and while you were on stage… Oh, child…" Her paper-thin skin whispered against Christine's supple flesh as she rubbed a thin thumb over the back of the girl's hand reassuringly. "The mistakes we've made… the mistakes we've _all _made…"_

"_Please, Madame… you need your rest. There is no need to dwell on this any further. What has been done cannot be changed."_

_The bony fingers grasped in Christine's hand trembled momentarily, then, before twisting and grasping hers tightly in return. The former Headmistress' head turned towards her former pupil and her eyes cracked open to regard the young woman before her. "Christine, I wronged you. I wronged _him_." The woman's eyes closed again, and her chest heaved as she fought to control her emotions. "God, forgive me. My children…"_

_Christine sighed and dipped the damp cloth back into a small bowl of cool water nearby, wrung it carefully as Giry's hand fluttered back to her chest, and folded it once more to lay upon the woman's prominent brow. "There was nothing that you could do, Madame. I was so afraid… and, I think he may have been, as well." She shook her head, dismissing the woman's guilt with a turn of her head. "There was no stopping what was to come."_

"_I could have told you the truth, dear girl."_

_Christine nearly snorted in amusement at this. _Truth_, she says. What is that rare and marvelous creature? Since her eyes had been opened to the reality of the world around her, she had begun to see the world in a new way – not the simple and straightforward kindly place her father had introduced her to, and not the magical and dark realm that her Maestro had revealed to her, but something far more sinister, more cruel and more hidden than she had imagined. _Truth_ and _Reality_ were sadistic twins that tormented Christine nightly with visions of her Angel's twisted, charred corpse. They were reflected in the jealous eyes of the de Chagny sisters as they looked at the young singer with distrust and distaste. They were the biting comments suggesting that the two times she'd been taken by the "madman" were times that she was subjected to less than gentlemanly intentions, and that the future Comte de Chagny was taking into his house and giving his name to a sullied whore, who had freely given herself with abandon in front of hundreds the night the opera burned._

_Her mind turned, then, to the night atop the opera house and the music that stirred her soul, the touch of her Angel's fingertips through leather and lace but still leaving a trail of fire on her skin that first fateful night in his home on the lake, the monstrous face laid bare before a screaming, panicked crowd and his look of utter shock and pained humiliation at her stark betrayal. Oh, the lies, the secrets, the half-truths that she had mired herself within so readily… "Truth has no place here, Madame," Christine murmured as he wrung the warmed rag yet again, wetting it and replacing it in a deft, practiced motion. "I imagine it never did."_

_The older woman's cold eyes opened to glare at the youthful figure sitting next to her, the scorn clear upon her skeletal face. "The Truth always matters, Christine, and it always did. I was too much of a fool to realize it then, but you will sit here, you will _listen_, and you will know His story just as well as I do, and you will carry it with you until the day you die…" Her eyes closed again, in exhaustion, as she sighed. "In this, at least, we can keep him alive, if just a while longer…"_

_With this, Christine shut her mouth and sullenly sat near her old Mentor, resolute and determined to listen with her heart cold and dead as the stone that surrounded her father's bones, and that lined the catacombs that saw her Angel's last tormented breath. What need had she for _Truth_, now? But, Giry's words began, and wove a rich and tragic tapestry in her mind of gypsies, a young girl and a young man's eyes meeting through the iron bars of his barbaric prison, the fresh and weeping wounds and sores on his filthy body, and the girl's brave decision to help him flee. Christine swallowed and closed her eyes as Giry described the boy's absolute wonder as he explored the depths and back passages of the opera house, the joy of his complete freedom in its shadows, the mischief he'd commit as he explored and began to secretly interact with the opera denizens, the first days of the legend of the Opera Ghost. Decades passed, Giry married, became a mother, and widowed all under the watchful gaze of the man who acted as her protector, the puppeteer who deftly manipulated the strings of management in Giry's favor and whose own genius began to shape the future and the success of the Opera Populaire. In quiet tones, Giry then began to recount the change in his behavior when the young, wide-eyed brunette had begun to perform in the opera's corps du ballet, how the once aloof and sullen personality had suddenly vibrated with life and purpose, how he began to pepper Giry with questions he'd never considered before – what flowers are appropriate for a suitor to present to his intended? How does one approach his intended to begin a courtship? He had excused his questions by insisting they were research for his new opera, but Giry's instinct told her otherwise… and yet, she did nothing, said nothing, gave no counsel and offered no words of wisdom._

"_What could I say, dear child?" the older woman murmured as cool tears slipped past her eyelashes and Christine's, alike. "How could I have known it would have been taken that far? I had hoped it was mere infatuation. You were but a mere girl…"_

_Christine's mind was awash with torment as she listened to Giry recount the story of a nearly skeletal young man whose grotesque features were made more pronounced by his obvious and disturbing level of malnutrition. Young Giry had spent her childhood on the family farm, and had the unfortunate experience of witnessing the family's cattle slowly starve to death during a series of particularly bad drought years. Her father had chosen the strongest of the herd to feed and keep alive, and the rest were left to fend for themselves. His ribs reminded her of those she had seen of the weakly lowing cattle that would gather at their designated feed time near the main gate to the pasture, only to be disappointed as they watched her father's prize bull and the family's best milking cow receiving what feed he could afford to dole out for the day. As the child's death head turned upon the horrified audience, Giry could only look at the boy first in pity and then in horror as his master's lash came crashing down upon his back._

"_The Devil's Child, they called him," Giry whispered as the jeers of the crowd and taunts of the burly overseer rang in her ears. "He was so _young_, the age of the new dancers I'd been assigned to look after in the ballet corps. Hardly younger than I, and treated in this manner – starved, beaten, humiliated, forced to live in filth…" Christine bit her lip to keep the sob trapped inside of her throat as she looked away, and Giry wiped a slowly sinking tear from her own cheek even as her voice strengthened in anger. "It wasn't just, and it wasn't right, and not one person there was willing to do a damned thing about it. Gendarmes sat nearby and laughed along _with_ the crowd. Through no fault of his own, this boy was being condemned to a life of torture and suffering. I could not abide by such cruelties. The moment those golden eyes rose and met mine, my decision was made – I turned my back and left the tent, and began to consider my options."_

_As a dancer, the young Giry had mastered the art of moving silently, manipulating her solidly muscled frame on the calloused soles of her feet to move like a cat in the night. Years in the backstage of the Opera had taught her how to find hiding spaces and how to blend in with the shadows. It wasn't a challenge at all for her to slip away from her group and find a secure place inside of the camp to wait for the night to settle in and for the tents to quiet down. She hadn't yet determined how she was going to unlock the boy's iron cage, but had faith that somehow God himself would smile upon her and help her deliver this child from his trappings. So deep in thought was she that once she entered the quiet tent that had housed the boy's cage, she didn't immediately understand what she was seeing before her – sprawled on the floor of the cage was the large overseer, a bag of coin clutched tightly in his hand, his face purple and eyes bloodshot and bulging, his own whip now limp around his neck. In the corner, the emaciated, bleeding and bruised young man was facing the corner of his cage, arms clutched to his chest, rocking himself back and forth with his eyes screwed shut in blind fear and anticipation of what was to come._

_Giry gasped. Amidst this scene, the cage door stood wide open._

"_Boy…" Her voice was a hoarse whisper, the weight of the event now settling in fully upon her mind and heart. There would be blood for this act, and both she and the child knew it. "Please…"_

_She shivered as she stepped into the filthy iron cage, and reached a pale, delicate hand out to touch the child's shoulder. He flinched immediately, dropping to his knees and covering his head in self defense, whining softly as his rocking grew more pronounced. Casting a quick glance behind her to ensure they were not yet discovered, she crouched behind him, whispering urgently._

"_Can you understand me?" Her tone grew stern as he ignored her query, and her brow furrowed in frustration. "This is no game, child! We are running out f time. Answer me – can you understand me?"_

_The boy's rocking slowed to a halt and the death's head turned her way. She gasped and felt tears spring to her eyes – his already mangled face was purple and swollen where he had been beaten, his less fortunate eye nearly swollen shut. Hesitatingly, the boy's mouth opened, his tongue moved, and then stilled as he chose instead to simply nod assent._

"_Perfect. Give me your hand, then. We are leaving this horrid place. Immediately." Giry stood with as much authority as her five and a half foot frame could muster, and she saw in the child's eyes a flash of inspiration momentarily. She imagined, for a brief instant, that she must have looked like an angel to him, her hand outstretched and waiting for his trembling, dirt-encrusted hand to touch hers. She shivered but a moment as his cold flesh touched her own. _

"_My name is Antoinette, and I will ensure that you never see the likes of a cage again. Come with me."_

* * *

><p>Snip.<p>

He sighed with a content that he was nearly afraid to settle into as he looked at the delicate stem resting between his long fingers.

Snip.

Once he had finished in the kitchen and the children had been fed and sent off to the library for the evening, Erik found himself in need of a new task to keep himself occupied. He desperately wished to keep vigil over Christine, her jasmine scent still lingering on the collar of his shirt where she had clung and begged him to stay before he firmly laid her upon her own bed. He had smiled, then, as he watched her eyes flutter closed once her head sank back into the deep, feathered pillow. He remembered the chestnut-haired girl he'd watched in the ballet dormitories, and the woman before him had not changed in that regard. She worked herself to the bone during the day, and her sleep at night was then welcome, deep, and guiltless.

It was the kind of sleep he had never experienced.

Snip.

He couldn't sit watch over her all evening, however. He knew there were responsibilities to a household of this size, and with Christine resting, someone would need to be up and about to attend to those needs and to keep inquisitive young mind from waking his angel while she slumbered. Here in the garden that she had built in the small plot of land behind the home, Erik knew peace. The setting sun cast a shadow across the garden, shrouding the Phantom among the blood-red roses that she had cultivated in his memory. He wondered as he delicately pruned the bushes that thrived in the soil how she had developed her horticultural skills so well - a girl who, as far as he knew, had nothing in her head but music, theater, and dance. Erik found himself smiling again. She was a smart girl... no, an intelligent _woman_ - and he did not doubt that she would pick up whatever skills she deemed necessary. Beneath her wide-eyed exterior was the heart of a lion, and the cunning of a fox.

Snip.

He found himself chuckling. Beautiful, soulful, brilliant, determined, and talented beyond belief. His perfect compliment in every way...

Except one.

Erik sighed and pocketed the shears he'd been using, resisting the urge to touch and hide his scarred cheek. He had been briefly tempted to run once he had laid her to bed, feeling the reverberations of that first night in the house by the lake echoing in his psyche as he watched her slow breathing. The desire to fly off into the night, away from hope, away from a possible future, and away from the whispered confessions of devotion from the only human he'd ever loved was strong. This swelling in his chest was new - an unknown - and Erik _hated_ unknowns. The world was something he understood - it was brutal, cruel and unfair. It was obsessed with surface beauty and petty trifles of daily life. It was heartless and shallow, but he had grown used to _all_ of this and had built his fortress of defenses accordingly.

Now, a simple and beautiful young woman - more perfect than any idea of an angel that could have been conceived in heaven - threatened to shake that fortress to its very foundation with nothing more than a sincere smile, turned upon his unmasked, horrible face.

It was twilight, now - a time when Erik would have prowled sewers and alleys alike in the past. Instead, he turned his naked scars to the sky, watching the stars mark their place in the night high above him.

A soft melody rose in the silence of the night, winding its way down the rough exterior of the house and through the thick growth of the garden. The melody was somber and sweet, and the soprano timbre that carried the tune was tinged with sorrow. his breath caught in his throat... that _voice_! Had it been five years...? The sound had lost none of its sweetness, yet it had matured significantly. There was something darker there, now - what _was_ it?

So enraptured was he that he did not notice the warmth of another body pressing against him until two small sets of fingers wrapped themselves around his hand. Startled, he looked down at a headful of curls and Maria looking up at him with worry creasing her cherubic face. Erik knelt down, one knee pressing into the soft earth. "What troubles you, child?"

"Madamoiselle is singing," came the reply. Erik looked up to see Pol in the doorway, his brows knit together in frustration.

Maria wrapped her arms around Erik's neck and he straightened with the girl pressed tightly against his cold flesh, face buried in her collar. Twice in one day, he mused - more had sought comfort from him in the past twenty-four hours than had in his lifetime.

"Madamoiselle Daae has an exceptional voice," replied her former mentor, "Why should anyone find reason to fear it?"

Pol's face turned up to where Erik had been watching before - a small open window with the dim light of a lantern showing through. "Monsieur Erik, Madamoiselle only sings like this when she's telling one of us goodbye."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Joaquin!"

The boy raised his head in the fog of the night, turning towards the sing-song voice that was calling his name from afar.

"Joaquin…"

"…Mother? Where are you?" He rose from his knees effortlessly, painlessly, and could not remember why that would be so odd and why he would feel so free to be able to move without restriction in this dreary night. He placed his hands on his hips, standing with an easy arrogance that comes only to the young as he surveyed the land around him. He was in the South field on his family's farm, bare toes digging into the rich earth. He could smell the night around him – the earthworms making their way through the dirt, the fresh smell of the new sprouting plants that surrounded him, the heat of the day withering away. The world was opened to him like a book in one deep inhalation, and he smiled in welcome.

A sharp bark from behind greeted him, and he turned to see the family dog trotting his way. Mutton was a vague mix of the highest caliber that had been with the family since he was a boy and the neighbor's bitch had whelped a litter whose pups were going to be thrown into a nearby pond if the surrounding families weren't interested in taking them in. Ten years had passed since that child walked back to the farm with his father, a wriggling pup alternating between eager licks of Joaquin's rosy cheeks and squirming and whining to be let down to explore. The proved to be a quick learner, much like Joaquin himself, and just as dedicated as a worker. Joaquin and his father were astounded the day they realized the dog's ancestry included a strong predilection to herding, as Mutton retrieved and guided a wayward lamb back to the flock before either of them had noticed it was missing.

"Joaquin! Where are you?"

The voice was muddled, but clearly female. Mutton whined softly, turning his head up to the boy and cocking an ear inquisitively. "Come on, Mutt," he encouraged, "I suppose we've stayed out here too long."

The two walked together out of the South field and towards the homestead, and the fog enveloped them like a blanket – thick and heavy on Joaquin's skin, giving him the sensation that he was covered in sweat. Mutton whined low and long, prompting the boy to kneel by him as the two peered into the foggy night, unable to make anything out before them. Mutt pressed close to Joaquin's leg, forcing his muzzle beneath the lad's hand as he begged for comfort.

"Joaquin…"

The voice seemed further away this time, although he was certain they had been heading in the right direction. He straightened, giving the dog a reassuring pat on his hindquarters. "It's okay, boy," he said, "It's just the fog rolling through. Let's get home."

He started forward with only a slight hesitation. Nearly fifteen years in these fields reassured him that they were going in the right direction, even if he couldn't see it with his own eyes. Joaquin took another deep breath, a part of him eager to see how the night changed with what the fog carried in.

It started as a tickle at the back of his throat, the sensation of some prickly, otherworldly feather making its way down his throat and into his chest. He breathed deeper, trying to clear the discomfort from his lungs with fresh air, and found instead that sensation encompassing his mouth, his throat, and his chest. He doubled over as Mutt crouched low to the ground, ears back, eyes wide. Violent coughing wracked his body until Joaquin fell to his hands and knees, retching into the soil before him.

The air was cleaner, here, near the earth. He gasped, the burning not quite gone from his chest as he looked up to see a light within the fog. No, he thought, within the _smoke_. No fog carried this kind of poisonous air with it. Peering at the weak but dancing light before him, Joaquin tried to discern what he was looking at – it was then that he heard the screams.

"God in Heaven, please! Joaquin! Where are you?" The woman's frantic cries were barely audible over the sound of screaming animals – horses, cattle, pigs, all frantic for freedom, and terrified as they watched their approaching doom.

Joaquin bolted upright – a fire in the barn? "Mother!" he cried, forcing himself to resist the urge to cough again, "I'm coming, Mother!" Rising to his feet, he rushed forward towards the flickering, glowing light that shone ahead in the thickening smoke. He ran headlong into the shorter, nearly hysterical woman, with Mutt barking frantically at his feet. She seemed to not recognize him at first, staring with wide eyes rimmed in smudges of soot. "Mother, I'm here!" Joaquin took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle but firm shake. "Where is father?"

Her eyes spilled over in gratitude as she wrapped her arms around him in a bear hug. She sobbed into the front of his shirt before pulling back, the wet tracks of tears carving tributaries down her sooted cheeks. "In the barn, son. We didn't know where you were. We thought…"

"Father!" Joaquin broke out of his mother's impotent grasp and ignored her agonized wails as he rushed headlong into Hell.

* * *

><p>Christine sighed softly and ran the back of her hand across her forehead. Finally, with this last lullaby, Joaquin's breathing stabilized and he appeared to be making his way through another wave of fever dreams. She sat next to him, on the floor near his cot, and reached out again to test the cool, wet rag she had placed on his head earlier. It was room temperature at this point, and would soon be warm to the touch. Taking her hand from the girl whose weary head was resting in Christine's lap, she pulled the wet rag from Joaquin's head and pushed it into the bucket of clean, cool water that sat nearby, allowing herself a brief moment of satisfaction as the chill of the water traveled up through her fingertips, sending a shiver down her spine. She carefully replaced the cool rag on the whimpering boy's forehead and slouched slightly as she sighed again.<p>

When Christine had awakened, she found Dinah watching vigil over Joaquin as he slept. She had entered and the girl bustled over to her in a flurry of explanations and activity. There had been no change, really – he still hadn't awakened. Physician Fisher had no suggestions aside from watchful waiting (as usual), the leJeune parents stayed for about an hour after the physician left. Joaquin's father was still injured from the fire and weakened from the travel from the farm, so he was sent off to rest with the promise that they would be notified at their nearby boarding room of any change in Joaquin's status.

As she explained all of this, Dinah had pulled Christine to Joaquin's bedside and begun pushing supplies into Christine's hands. The Mistress of the house looked at the frantic young woman as the girl desperately tried to shake off the inevitable with busy work, and finally took pity on the girl by holding up a free hand and covering the girl's chattering mouth, pointedly looking into her mismatched eyes. Dinah caught her breath, her erratic movements ceasing. Christine watched the girl's jaw work as she tried to speak, her blue eyes filling and brimming with tears.

"Christine, he _can't_…"

The girl fell into Christine's embrace with a choked sob that she'd been fighting for hours, and Christine held her tighter as Dinah trembled in her arms and shook her head. "Tell me he'll be okay, please. We've done everything right. We made certain he was eating, drinking, resting…"

Christine pulled her tighter. "It's out of our hands, darling. We've done all we can, and now we wait, like we always must."

Dinah had fallen asleep not long after, curled tight against Christine's slight frame as the two watched Joaquin's restless sleep. The same arias that calmed his trembling had also sent Dinah into a deep slumber, and Christine was left in the darkening room with two wounded children in her arms, and the music of the past ringing in her head and heart.

* * *

><p>"<em><span>Again<span>__."_

_The perspiration beaded on Christine's forehead as she huffed in frustration. "What's wrong this time?"_

_The answer came back, sharp as a knife. "If you must ask this, Christine, we're wasting our time, here." The sound of a gloved hand smacking against the black lacquer of the grand piano rang out into the hollow of the empty Hall before her. "Is it your intent to destroy my greatest creation through sheer incompetence?"_

_Christine stomped her foot in response. "Is it _your_ intent to wear your Diva down to a nub only a week before your Premiere? We have been at this for four hours. It is well after midnight; the entirety of this opera house has either emptied or is sleeping in the dormitories; and you insist on keeping _your Star_ up at this ungodly hour to repeat this _tripe_ ad nauseum." With this, Christine stepped forward, her eyes seeking the darkness of the orchestra pit as she dramatically swept her arm wide, toppling her ornately scrolled music stand and sending the score to _Don Juan Triumphant_ scattering like leaves in the wind._

"_Tripe?"_

_Christine's eyes narrowed in defiance as the light in the already darkened hall died to a barely discernable glow. The air around her vibrated in anger, a shuddering tremolo of the taut catgut of the violin combined with deep, foreboding bass of the cello. Anyone else – any _normal_ person, she thought – would have simply noticed the Hall go deathly silent, and terribly dark. But she, having experienced His Voice, His Music, could not help but to hear the orchestra that surrounded not just the two of them, but the entirety of the Opera House and even the city itself with the song of Life – music that sang in every living and stationary thing, and this music was dark and sinister. His Theme, she thought wryly, her brown eyes glinting in the low light and staring ahead. She lifted her chin in pride, with an anger and frustration equal to the Mentor whose shadow now blocked the light from her vision as he towered over her, the corner of his cloak whispering against the hem of her dress._

"_Tripe."_

_Christine's jaw jutted out further. "_Tripe._"_

"_Christine..." her name was a warning carried upon his lips, the world around her nearly shuddering with his barely restrained rage._

"_Perhaps you prefer that I classify it as _quaint?_"_

_The growl was low, menacing, and she could not help but smirk as her back straightened further, enjoying the heat of the anger that rolled off of him and penetrated her to her core. Opera Ghost_, _she thought. He is but a man. A pathetic, pitiful, man who is far too used to getting his way. Well, she was upset, she was tired, she was hungry, and he had pushed her button for the last time._

"_Yes, it seems you might prefer that. Regardless, whether it is quaint or a mound of tripe, I will have nothing more to do with it." She stepped forward, her chin rising further to look into where she knew the twin golden orbs looked down upon her in rage. "As a matter of fact, I have determined that this entire production is not worthy of my gift, much less the fool who composed this horrifying monstrosity."_

"_You _dare_…"_

"_Oh, I _dare_, Monsieur. You think I would be frightened of the likes of you, _Opera Ghost_? You can't hurt me. I will take this voice, and I will run with it – across Europe, across the Straits, across the ocean, to a place you will never find me. I will live like a Queen with Raoul, who knows how to treat a lady properly. Best of all, I will never be cursed to ever again hear your voice or see your pathetic f-."_

_Christine's voice choked off into a strangled gasp as burning, skeletal fingers wrapped around her porcelain throat. Her own willowy fingers shot up to grasp the impossibly strong hands that almost tenderly began to crush her larynx._

"_Indeed, Christine. It is easy enough to fix that, if you wish to never hear nor _see_ me again. We can easily arrange it so you never see or hear anything again, yes?" The Phantom smiled darkly in the shadows, feeling an uncomfortable thrill beating deep within his chest at the feel of her cool, fragile skin under his touch. He released her as her nails began to claw into his wrists – so much like a kitten, he thought. So angry, so pretty, so absolutely incapable of defending herself. With a shove, he sent her sailing backwards across the stage. She landed in a heap, coughing violently between moments of looking up to glare at the overbearing shadow that observed her, ringed by barely-lit sheets of music around his feet. _

"_You can't do it," she managed to say. "You'll never be able to do it. Not to me. You'll never win this game."_

_He regarded her coolly, all amusement gone from his eyes and his voice. "My sweet Christine, I never had to lay my finger on you to harm you. I can destroy you without ever causing so much as a cut on that perfect skin, or a wrinkle in those lovely garments."_

"_You're no magician, fiend," she countered. "And you no longer have any power over me. Tomorrow, Raoul and I will leave, and you will be left with Carlotta to warble her way through your work."_

_She could feel the air around her calm again as she regarded the creature before her, eyeing her like a predator would its next meal. "Ah, but Christine," he countered, "as well as you know me, do you truly believe I would allow your boy to live long enough to take step on a vessel bearing you away from me, much less take one step outside of my city?"_

_Her breath caught in her throat. Silence. True silence. The world had stilled around them as she looked at him in dawning horror, and he at her in growing satisfaction. The gauntlet had been thrown. "You wouldn't…"_

"_Oh, but I would, and I believe you know it." The figure moved, turning its back on the girl who lay in a crumpled heap of disbelief. "Perhaps his carriage would arrive and you would find his cold body waiting inside while you clutch your traveling bag. Perhaps I would even wait until your nuptials are completed to know the joy of your screams when you find him dead beside you in your marital bed. Fulfill the commitment you've agreed to, child, or you will find yourself without a future here, and without a future with your beaux." He mused aloud, "Is it possible to be a widow before one actually marries? No matter…"_

_Christine swallowed hard, her throat groaning with the effort as her eyes welled with tears. "I hate you." Rising to her feet, she screamed, "I wish I had never met you!"_

"_I assure you, dear child, the feeling is quite mutual."_

* * *

><p>"<em>If I caught your eye from across the room, would you rise to greet me?<br>If I promised Sun and Moon, would you deign to meet me?  
>Fairest rose in Winter's chill, Angel of my heart,<br>How do I dare approach you? However would I start?"_

Erik stood outside of the infirmary on the second floor, a tray of hot tea clutched in his iron grip as he leaned against the wall where her sweet voice murmured the Serenade from _Don Juan Triumphant_, an ode he had written for Christine and placed on the tongue of the opera's lead to speak for him. Memories from just a handful of years prior rushed back to him as if they were from a lifetime ago – their angry quarrels as they prepared her for the role of a lifetime, the last and most explosive argument that left bruises at her throat and a bleeding wound upon his heart, seeing her on stage the night of the Premiere as he watched her expression change in recognition of who stood on stage with her during the opera's most alluring duet, her cool fingers tenderly caressing his face high above the audience before ripping away his last layer of anonymity for the world to see.

How he had hated her, then!

How he had loved her, even then.

How he still loved her, today…

He slipped into the modestly appointed room, quiet as a cat. Still, he saw her back straighten at his arrival, as the song died on her lips. At her side, a boy lay in a plush cot, sweat beading on his skin, his back covered in bandages. In her lap rested the blonde girl – Dinah? – who had startled him into this new and welcome reality. The low rumble of his voice quivered in the room, fraught with memory and meaning.

"You sing beautifully, Mademoiselle."

He felt her blush from across the room as her delicate head lowered, and he could sense the small smile playing upon her lips. "My mentor taught it to me," he replied, "…and he taught me well." She swallowed, hesitating but a moment before continuing, "I lost him, five years past, and found myself wandering in a world I no longer understood. Everything I knew fell away, and this music was often all that kept me going."

Erik set the tray gingerly next to her, and knelt behind her. One thin and spindly hand rested on her shoulder. "My Christine…"

She took that hand in her own, her touch as light as a feather, and pressed it to her cheek, relishing in the warmth that spread through her at his touch. "The guilt tore at me for years, Erik. To know the gift you offered me, and how I tossed it aside so pridefully. To know the consequences of that choice, and the number of people who paid for my reckless decisions…"

"No one would blame you, Christine," he replied with his head hung low. "With this face…"

He felt her lips cool upon his inner wrist, trailing down to his palm. "It was never your face, sweet man. I was young, vain, talented, and gaining fame. You would do anything to avoid losing me, and between you, Giry, Raoul, and those two managers, I felt as if I were being crushed by responsibility and warring ideas of duty." She turned, then, to face her once-Mentor, tears falling from her eyes. "When you had pushed me before, I'd always come back to rise to your challenge just to prove myself worthy of your attention. But that last time, I just couldn't…"

"His hand moved as gracefully as a falling petal from a rose blossom, nimbly catching a tear as it ran down her cheek. "You told me that you hated me, Christine."

"I could never hate you." Her dark lashes were wet with tears as she looked fervently into his golden gaze. "I've never loved anyone more – not then, and not now."

* * *

><p>Joaquin had never known terror or pain like when he had plunged headlong into the inferno raging inside his family's barn. In the darkness of the night and the fog, the blaze was impossibly, blindingly bright. The smell of the smoke betrayed that it had already claimed victims – the scent of cooking and charred flesh intermingled with the smell of burning timber.<p>

"Father!" Joaquin cried, peering into the mixture of light and smoke, the heat pricking at his eyes and evaporating his frightened tears before they had a chance to fall. "Papa!"

A rumbling from behind him caused Joaquin to turn just in time to see his family's prize stallion rushing toward him, eyes wide and dark as he instinctively made his way to the barn doors. The boy stepped aside as fast as he could, but still not quickly enough to avoid the screaming beast running past him. Caught by the creature's flank, Joaquin was thrown to the side, landing with a tortured scream in a flaming pile of feed.

Time slowed to an impossible, agonizing pace as Joaquin thrashed, unable to right himself in his pain. As his body slowed and he felt himself sinking into darkness, he opened his eyes to see a figure approaching through the flames. A female, fire billowing out like hair behind her, and spreading like a pair of great wings.

He struggled to breathe, his lungs feeling as if they were being ground like wheat with every intake. She stood before him, a vision in glowing white with hair the color of corn silk buffeted by the heat and wind of the fire. Bright blue eyes shone upon him in compassion and tenderness. He watched as she extended her hand to him, and he looked at it in confusion.

"Take my hand, Joaquin," she said – her voice so young, and yet so ancient. "Let me help you bear your burden."

With the last of his strength, he raised his arm and placed his hand in hers. She grasped it with a warm, genuine smile before her brown furrowed and she doubled over in agony. Her screams pierced the air, and Joaquin found himself able to breathe. She grasped his hand tighter, a long wail shuddering through her body and sending vibrations down his arm. Joaquin sat up in shock, watching the girl's arm wither and weaken as she maintained contact with him. Her tortured face turned up to him, he saw her flesh twist and her beautiful hair begin to fall to the ground. The girl before him panted when her exertions subsided, and she trembled violently, stumbling and falling into his arms.

Cool air entered Joaquin's lungs and blew like a balm across his back as he caught the girl and lowered her carefully to the ground. He looked around at the clear night sky and the familiar South field before looking back down to the twisted face of the angel cradled in his arms. She opened her eyes, one now nearly scarred shut, and she smiled at him, accomplishment clear on the unscarred half of her face. Recognition dawned on Joaquin, and he gasped, cupping the girl's scarred cheek.

"…Dinah?"

She chuckled and closed her eyes. "Rest now, Joaquin. I will do the same."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

When Dinah awoke, the room around her was quiet and dark and she was snuggled beneath a light blanket in what felt like her own cot. Joaquin! Had Christine taken her to bed once she'd fallen asleep? The girl's heart raced in momentary panic and her aching muscles tensed as she prepared to get up and rejoin the boy who struggled to recover down the hall.

"I would not recommend you do that, girl," purred a melodic voice from the shadows, rich with amusement. "It took long enough to convince him to return to sleep last time – we can't have you waking him again."

It was then that Dinah registered the weight of an arm across her abdomen, draped both carelessly and protectively around her as if it were to ward off the night itself. She touched the arm gingerly, the delicate fingertips of her good arm testing the flesh that invaded her personal space so wantonly, exploring the once muscular forearm now suffering from weeks of disuse, the prominent wristbone that she'd find herself staring at as he slept, the familiar calluses on the palm of his hand. Her feather-light touch must have tickled, for the boy murmured in his sleep, shifting with more ease than she'd witnessed since his arrival in the household, and his arm tightened reflexively around her, sending a thrill of warmth through her body.

It was a moment before Dinah could breathe, much less speak, as her mind registered the origin and sheer delight of the touch of the lad next to her. "He…" she fought her emotion stoically, despite the cry of joy that threatened to burst forth in sobs from her throat. "He's okay?"

There was a rustle in the darkness and the presence that had been observing them from afar moved closer, its power radiating near her right shoulder. She turned her head in that direction and saw two golden eyes shining back at her. She felt uncomfortable, then, keenly aware that those cat-like eyes that had been watching her while she slept had likely seen everything in the dark, and could see her looking back at him now. Mademoiselle Daae's guest, no doubt – the man whose burn scars were not burn scars, whose twisted flesh did not turn pink and raw with healing as hers had, and as everyone's had. The man whose face seemed to have atrophied into a death's head on its right side – sunken eye, decimated nose, atrophied ear, and flesh so paper thin that you could sense his pulse by sight alone, should you have the opportunity and will to study the complex network of blood vessels beneath that parchment-like skin. The man whose beautiful golden eyes threatened to burn her to her very core when he had realized that she'd gazed upon his terrifying face without permission. The man whose countenance, beneath the rage, betrayed his fear of rejection and history of betrayal.

Dinah knew the mix of emotions – the first time she'd accidentally allowed her Persian wrap to fall from her face in public, she was treated to the sound of shrill screams from the women nearby, looks of disgust from the men, and blatant mockery by the children in the market. Later, when she and Christine had finished scrubbing the tomato juice and flesh from the garments that had nearly been ruined by the jeering mob, the young woman insisted upon two things to Dinah: first, that she would return to the market the next day (despite her adamant protests); second, that Christine would accompany her. What Dinah witnessed that next day was something she'd never had expected of the young Soprano – with the first malicious jeer from the crowd, Christine turned into a banshee, singling members of the crowd out with a look that could freeze the fires of Hell itself. She called out the vendors who had stood by or laughed along with the crowd the previous day, she towered over young boys and girls who cowered before her in abject fear, and she shamed men and women alike. She called for the best of humanity while condemning their pettiness and cruelty with a dramatic flourish that made Dinah sit and watch in awe, and by the time she was done the crowd had resolutely pretended that nothing had happened that day or the day before, and moved about with their day in embarrassment. When Dinah returned the next week, there were no jeers or harsh looks and she even received a few nods of greeting.

She remembered, briefly, the rush of suspicion and then gratitude as she realized that the gentler members of the local market, especially the shop owners, were treating her with genuine respect and kindness. She wondered if that same basic courtesy had ever been extended to the malformed man before her and, given his behavior since she'd first seen him awake, she immediately assumed that it hadn't.

His golden eyes blinked, unnerved by the careful gaze of the girl lying before him. Dinah heard him clear his throat before he answered, "The boy is recovering. He rallied a few nights ago, and the physician believes the worst is over."

The girl took a moment to evaluate the body lying on the cot next to hers, and realized for the first time that the overwhelming fever that had been rolling off of Joaquin had disappeared, and his skin was dry and cool. The eyes regarded her carefully, measuring her reaction as comprehension dawned across her face. She felt his bony hand on her chest, firmly holding her back against the cot as she struggled in defiance to rise.

"What do you mean, 'a few nights ago'? But, when I last... How long have I been sleeping?!"

His eyes narrowed. "Three nights ago, you fell asleep in Mademoiselle Daae's lap, your hand resting upon the boy's. As she and I took vigil, you began to grow feverish and unresponsive. Later that night, Joaquin's fever broke, and both of you were sequestered to allow for recovery. Christine was nearly inconsolable by your side, child. It took the physician's repeated reassurances that you had simply fallen into a deep state of exhaustion before she finally agreed to rest and allow me to assist. That's more than I can say about the boy..."

Her breath caught in her throat. "He's awakened?"

He chuckled. "You could say that. Two nights ago, he awoke and demanded that he see you. Naturally, we refused him as you were still gripped by fever. When she finally told him where you were and how you had fallen ill, he threw a fit that I'd seen few others match. We finally relented and moved you in here with him just to keep him calm, so he could keep watch over you during his waking hours. He has tended to you as best as he could these past two days."

Dinah turned her head, regarding the young man whose arm was still wrapped protectively around her. Reaching up with the tenderness and caution of a girl approaching a kitten, she gently brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, scarcely able to discern his features in the dark. "He... he asked after me?"

"No, child." The response was firm, and heavy with meaning. "He demanded you. There was nothing in this world that he wanted more than to be near you."

* * *

><p><em>She stood on the other side of the glass, wreathed in soft candlelight, her lace and silk dinner ensemble practically radiant in her soft, angelic glow. <em>_He had never seen anything or anyone as beautiful as this girl before him, and he wagered that he would never see anything more breathtaking until __the day he died._

_Erik's stomach was in knots. All was as it should be – her premiere would be met with universal acclaim; he had never heard the girl in so fine_ _a voice, or with such confidence in her bearing. He had watched her carefully from high above the audience and could feel the heat of her gaze_ _permeating the crowd of the breathless audience. They all thought the virgin in the throes of desire was just an act designed for their collective_ _benefit, but he knew better. He had heard it in her voice before she left for the stage, he could see it in the power of her gaze, the swing of her wide_ _hips, the shuddering of her bosom and the flash of her white throat._

_"I am here, Angel," she was saying from the stark expanse of the stage. "Come, and claim what is yours."_

_He swallowed, suddenly thankful for the leather gloves that covered his cold, clammy skin and disguised his sweating palms. His right hand_ _trembled a moment as he reached up to turn up the oil lamps on that surrounded the mirror – light that would, in just a moment, illuminate his_ _masked, cloaked visage and give her the first glimpse of his form. He cursed himself for his weakness – he was twice her age, what had he to fear?_ _Still, he was not going to take chances – not tonight. This evening may very well be his only chance to capture her heart, and he would use every_ _trick available to him._

_"Christine."_

_"Angel...?"_

_"I left a gift for you on the dresser. Did you not see it?"_

_"The rose, Maestro? It is beautiful. It is perfect."_

_"Ah, but you did not even pick it up. Go on, child. Drink in its scent."_

_A small smile played upon her lips as she strode to the dresser that now held two perfectly formed blood red roses. Picking them up, she turned_ _back to the mirror, allowing the velvet softness of the petals to play upon the fullness of her lips as her brown eyes bored through the glass of the_ _mirror into his chest. Erik could not help but to allow a small groan to pass his own. "You tease me, vixen. Put the blossoms to your nose and drink_ _deeply of their fragrance."_

_Obedient to the core, she took a long drought from each flower, and he smiled to see her breath begin to quicken._

_"That's it, child. Drink it in again, and tell me what you sense."_

_Another two deep breaths and she replied, "A summer's day. A garden fit for royalty." Her eyelids fluttered momentarily before her eyes rolled back_ _and she swayed slightly, taking in another intoxicating breath. "Butterflies, of every color, dancing beneath a silvery moon. The silver of a child's_ _breath in winter, wafting into the music of the city..."_

_He smiled in approval. Her voice had taken on a sing-song kind of property, and her pupils had dilated – while normally brown, they were now nearly_ _as black as night. He could only imagine what she was seeing, hearing, feeling in the room around her and felt a growing sense of anticipation as_ _he pictured her descent into his lair. His every word, his every touch, would propel her further into the delirium of ecstasy. He felt his own breath __quickening in anticipation and forced his growing desire back under careful control honed from years of solitude and necessity. He felt a growing_ _tightness in his throat and chest and his normally resonant tenor came out as a hoarse whisper as he both commanded and pleaded, "Christine –_ _come to the mirror. Come and see your Angel."_

_Her gaze passed through the mirror, eyes black as the night, and she took slow and deliberate steps towards the massive piece of glass mounted on_ _the wall across from her dresser, the two roses falling to the blush Persian carpet beneath her slippered feet. "Angel of Music," she murmured, "you_ _will hide no longer…?"_

_In response, a figure slowly came to light behind the glass of the mirror, and Christine's full red lips parted in amazement. "Angel…"_

_"Yes, Christine," he breathed, his voice a whisper tenderly caressing her ear. "I am your Angel of Music. Come to me, angel."_

_He watched as she stepped to the mirror, pressing herself against it as if she were to walk through it, her black eyes never leaving his golden ones._ _In the back of his mind his conscience, that rare voice that had nearly been beaten out of him decades prior, screamed for him to let her be – to_ _disappear back into the dark and dank world he'd emerged from when he first heard her dulcet tones echoing through the air vents that released to_ _roof of the opera house. Return, it said, and leave this child of the Light to live her life untainted by your corrupted touch. Give her the opportunity_ _that you never had._

_But, she was just inches away from him, looking at him not with trepidation or abject fear, but with wonder and adoration. No, he thought, I cannot_ _turn back now. If I am to be damned for it, so be it – but this night, this girl, this moment is my one chance at knowing acceptance and even…_

_No. Not that. Even I cannot dare hope for that. Internally, Erik brushed that voice of hope to the side brusquely. It would be enough to be gazed on_ _without fear. If he could experience an evening of that, it would suffice to satisfy the gnawing hunger for companionship that had eaten at him for as_ _long as he could remember. Christine raised a slim hand to press against the mirror near her face, her eyes never leaving the hypnotic beauty of his_ _as she whispered, "Please…"_

_It was only a moment's hesitation before his gloved hand rose to meet hers on the other side of the glass, their palms pressed together for a brief_ _instant before he touched a switch that caused the glass between them to slowly slide to his left. They were left standing before each other, inches_ _away, hands raised and palms a hair's breadth away from touching. Frozen in time, eyes locked and breathing uneven, they regarded each other as_ _if for the first time in shared wonder and anticipation._

_Christine, unsurprisingly, was the first to move. Even in her drugged state, he mused privately, she was fearless. Cool, thin fingers pressed forward_ _and interlaced themselves between his own. His breath shuddered at the sensation – the cool of her skin washing over him in waves even through_ _the insulation of his leather and the wholly alien experience of the touch of another human being. He trembled as she stepped closer, her gaze_ _intent and purposeful, the silk of her gown pressing against the satin of his vest. Her fingers closed upon his hand securely and he found himself_ _marveling at how perfectly they entwined, her alabaster digits stark against the smooth black of his glove._

_He could feel it again – the unmistakable music of desire singing through her body, encircling him in its embrace and calling him into her like a siren's_ _song. Unable to stop himself, his free hand moved unbidden to gently trace the lines of her face, and her eyes fluttered closed in response. She_ _tilted her head up, lips parted in invitation as he tenderly cupped her perfect, rosy cheek. He licked his lips in response, leaning forward to taste that_ _impossibly beautiful mouth, his head swimming in joy._

_Fool! The darkness inside of him twisted, forcing him back from the beauty that awaited his kiss. You would ruin everything for a stolen kiss in the_ _dark! It is too soon!_

_A bruised and broken child cried out in protest from within. But, she is so beautiful! She isn't shying away! Just one kiss…_

_A snarl from the tatters of his heart responded to whimpering plea. You will lose her, you grotesque monstrosity, if you do not use care before you_ _make her yours. Is that what you wish…? Do you wish to fail, and to have her run screaming for the crowds awaiting her as soon as she sees –_

_"Angel…?"_

_Her eyes were open, still clouded with wonder but now tinged with concern as she watched the golden eyes grow troubled. The twin suns turned_ _back towards her again and he forced a smile of reassurance as he pressed a single gloved finger to her lips. "Follow me, Christine. I have so much_ _to show you."_

_The descent into his domain was arduous and dangerous, and the two of them halted more than once to avoid his many traps set throughout the_ _Labyrinth of the catacombs beneath the Opera Populaire. Yet, Christine saw none of this – her Angel held her hand securely and led her safely_ _through the tunnels as she gazed in wonder around her, the drug's effects turning the dark chambers and passageways into a rich tapestry of the_ _weird and wonderful. Creatures she would not be able to describe or remember beckoned her forward and tittered in delight as the two walked,_ _hand in hand, into the depths of the opera house's sprawling estate. When they reached the edge of the lake, the path ahead of the lit upon the_ _water by delicate and extravagant floating luminaries, he held out his hand to help her into the black gilded gondola that waited before them._

_Christine blinked, her head swimming with sensation as she registered – finally – what was happening. She looked around her – at her masked_ _Angel, the boat behind him, the luminaries on the water and the nymphs and sirens that splashed in the distance and then disappeared suddenly._ _The image of the frolicking creatures flashed in and out of her vision until her head began to throb and she pressed her fingers to her temples in_ _response, closing her eyes tightly._

_"Christine! What is wrong?"_

_She shook her head. "You… you're… inside my mind, aren't you? None of this… is any of this real?"_

_He pursed his lips together, obviously trying to determine the correct answer. He sighed in resignation. "What you've seen – some of it is real, some_ _of it is not. I provided you with a substance to make your trip here more enjoyable. I see it's not lasted as long as I'd hoped." When she frowned_ _in confusion at his response, he added, "The lake is real, Christine. The boat is real. I am real. We have traveled here…" He faltered, and looked_ _up into her eyes. Her pupils were returning to normal, the rich brown color warming her gaze like an autumn bonfire. "We have come here because_ _since the moment I first heard your voice, I knew that you needed to be here, with me – to serve, to sing, to collaborate in my Music. Christine, I_ _have worked tirelessly for years to write my Magnum Opus, but it wasn't until the moment your voice touched my ears that my Music truly came to_ _life. Your presence, your help will breathe new meaning and vibrancy into a work that was no more than an intellectual exercise until now."_

_He looked again at her clear eyes as she took this in. The wanton desire, the desperation for fulfillment and the need to be caressed were gone,_ _now. Instead, there was frank curiosity as she regarded the man before her. His heart sank. "Of course, if you refuse, I will take you back to the_ _surface. I will not bother you again…"_

_"No," she replied, without hesitation. She pursed her lips together and he noted with shock that the frank curiosity was slowly being replaced what_ _appeared to be fascination and an eagerness he had not seen in her before. "Please, Maestro – I want it all. Show me everything."_

_His throat bobbed with her last statement, a look of uncertainty in his eyes before he smiled slowly yet genuinely, and took her hand in his. "Sweet Mademoiselle, your_ _wish is my command."_

* * *

><p>"What is this?"<p>

"Well, what does it look like?"

"I know what this _is,_ Christine."

Her young voice was light with mischief. "Then, I don't know why you're asking me to identify it."

Erik's free hand fluttered to his forehead in mock frustration as he sighed heavily. "_Christine_..."

"It's been so long, Erik," she pleaded, falling to her knees before him in the drawing room, the tableau an echo of years before in those precious days when she sat at his feet as his nimble fingers drew melodies from the instrument in his hands. "There has been no music in this house - not for the sake of joy, or even of love of music itself. I grow weary of your songs being no more than a memory, and a balm in my worst pain." Her eyes were bright with eager anticipation and she clasped two thin hands upon his knee.

He regarded her evenly, face impassive beneath the wide brimmed hat that dipped low over the right side of his face. Any onlooker would see in him an abject denial of her plea, but to Christine the slight glimmer in his eye and pursing of his lips gave the game away and only made her anticipation grow. "Oh, Maestro, _please!_"

Christine felt like a child again on Christmas morning when her father would reveal their annual tradition of a fresh and ripe orange - a rare and costly treat - which they would then share. Her joy nearly burst from her chest and she bounced with exuberance as Erik sighed melodramatically and slowly unfolded his arms, stretching the neck of the instrument before him, its supple body weight resting upon his shoulder, beneath his chin. Fingers plucking experimentally at the catgut, he breathed deep and closed his eyes as the bow touched its first string.

The sound was earthy and rich, and Christine leaned into Erik's legs, her eyes closing in rapture as the song surrounded her and filled her. How long had it been since he'd last picked up a bow, she wondered? Yet, every note was pure and lustrous and wrought with meaning. She felt her soul caressed, captured, seduced, torn asunder and remade anew with each measure. Caught into the swell and release of the melody, Christine felt a counter-melody rising unbidden from her own throat. Her mouth opened, releasing a songbird's trill before launching into her own song, winding her way around and through the themes that Erik constructed on the violin.

Her grip tightened on his knees as she swayed lightly in the rapture of the harmonies they created, and she felt him shudder and heard his low groan as the tempo increased and the keys began to wind their way through the mysteries and the dangers of the minor keys. He was testing her - how far would she (could she?) follow him into the darkness of his imagination? Yet there she was, step by step, beat by beat, through little used modes and complex harmonies she matched his pace. His breathing quickened with hers, and he leaned forward, feeling the heat from the strings as he viciously tore through the music, bow and arm moving furiously inches from her face.

"_Yes,_ Christine..."

Her eyes opened wide, matched only by the width of her mouth, which was open wide as the music ripped through her body and escaped beautifully through her throat. She looked into the glowing golden gaze of her Angel as he stared into the core of her being. His arm moved as if an independent creature - demon controlled and bound to the violin as if it there were no place where the violin began and the arm ended.

"Sing for me, Christine."

She did not know it possible, but she redoubled her efforts, her voice glistening and shining like the most radiant star, the most perfect morning dew. He felt his heart skip with the sound, the fires of creation bubbling within him and threatening to burst forth like a volcano.

"_SING FOR ME!"_

She threw her head back and screamed - a sound that felt as if it were tearing her in twain yet in reality was remaking her. She felt old wounds opened and the searing pain of healing balms poured within. Her eyes rolled back and she just barely heard the clatter of the instrument being thrown aside before the warmth of his arms surrounded her and kept her from collapsing to the floor. When her eyes fluttered open again, his face was before her and his eyes wide with worry as she panted in his embrace.

"Christine! Are you well? I'm so very sorry..."

A thin finger the color of fine bone china rose to place itself upon his bloated lips as she smiled in gratitude and then caressed his withered cheek. "My Angel... thank you."

The flush of her cheek and flash of her neck, the pursed yet welcoming curve of her lips, her half lidded eyes - Erik would never know what it was that possessed him to lean in, curling his hand to cradle the nape of her neck as he pulled her to him. He would never have imagined the rush that would flow through him as their lips touched - first hesitatingly, and then eagerly and almost hungrily. He felt her hands slide over his shoulders and reach to his back to pull them closer together. He groaned in relief and anticipation as her lips parted and her tongue darted out to tease at his lips. Their kisses deepened in response and he found himself trembling as he held her. She drew back and looked at him in wonder, reaching up to brush a tear that had fallen to his cheek.

He smiled - a careful thing that reminded her of the slow dawning of the sun. Brushing a lock of hair off of her forehead, he whispered, "You are the most stunning creature I've ever witnessed, Miss Daae. I could die a happy man having known the glory that is your voice."

"And I, Monsieur, would die if I would be doomed to never know your music again."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

**The wedding was upon them before Christine had time to breathe, and she found herself grateful that this wasn't the grand affair that the deChagneys had been planning for her and Raoul. Instead, a small and quiet country ceremony was prepared for the excited yet nervous couple. Christine had dress fittings to schedule, a cake to help Marta design, a suit to have tailored, and guest invitations to manage. Erik was little help with the actual planning - he had insisted that he was no good at such things, and would keep his nose out of the matter, simply showing up where and when he was to make his presence known. Instead, he took over the management of the household - teaching the children, picking up after them, helping Marta in the kitchen, putting Christine's angels to bed. She observed that in the weeks of planning and preparation how Erik had warmed up to the children, their scars a common bond that made him feel accepted, and they more comfortable with his normally intimidating countenance.**

**After a particularly grueling day of running errands in the summer heat, she returned to a quiet household and to her mentor reading fairy tales to the children in the library. Those who weren't enraptured by the timbre of his beautiful voice were instead sleeping soundly with dreams of witches and warriors dancing in their heads.**

**"I knew you had it in you," she told him later that evening as they cleaned and put away dishes side by side in the kitchen.**

**"You knew that I had what, child?" Golden eyes slid to the left to eye her inquisitively as his hands deftly continued their chosen task.**

**Christine smiled in response, refusing to answer his further queries.**

**And now, after weeks upon weeks of preparation, here they stood together in the Autumn sun, the local minister standing close by as the pastor regarded Christine kindly and Erik with a bit more suspicion. Her dress billowed in the wind, its hem whispering against the polished finish of Erik's fine shoes, purchased specifically for this occasion. Christine's brown eyes rested upon Erik's but a moment before she reached out to take his hand, and then nodded to the minister that stood before them.**

**The elderly man raised his arms, motioning for those in attendance to rise to their feet. The small crowd rose in response, each of the children shuffling restlessly but quietly under Erik's stern gaze. Marta rose, as well, her sturdy frame helping assist the gentleman next to her that struggled to stand with his cane. His wife assisted on the other side and both of them looked to Christine with glowing pride.**

**Joaquin, still weak from recovery, shifted his weight from foot to foot to try to relieve the anxiety that showed so clearly on his face. Seeing the young man's discomfort, Erik cleared his throat pointedly and rested one thin hand in reassurance on the youth's shoulder. Releasing the boy and Christine alike, Erik bent down to pick up the small stringed instrument that rested at his feet.**

**The music began.**

**A vision in white, gleaming in the noon sun, emerged from the darkness of the newly rebuilt barn. She clutched a small nosegay of ripened wheat and wildflowers entwined with grape leaves and vine tendrils, and she proceeded hesitatingly as she approached the gathered crowd. Christine smiled as the girl approached, and doubly so when she saw Dinah's normally meek posture straighten with confidence and pride as she grew closer to Joaquin. Joaquin similarly had stopped his fidgeting as soon as she emerged and he saw his veiled bride approach.**

**In the weeks following their mutual recovery, the two youths grew closer together - Joaquin unable to stop staring in wonder at Dinah's face as if it were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and once Dinah grew used to such attention and realized it was genuine adoration, she stopped questioning the change and instead embraced it with a combination of exuberance and a little trepidation. The decision to marry had been his. When he had recovered to the point where he could safely return to his parents, Dinah had fallen into a deep state of depression as she convinced herself that her summer romance was over. Instead, before his parents, Christine, Erik, Marta and his fellow angels, he dropped to one knee just before he was to be taken home, and begged for Dinah to follow him.**

**Christine was shocked, as were Joaquin's parents. Erik, instead, watched the scene with a small smile playing upon his lips, beneath the hat that dipped low over his scars. It was no more than a week prior that the boy had come to him to ask his advice regarding the girl. Erik's advice? "If you love her, young man, do not ever let her go."**

**Moving past the small gathering of witnesses and celebrants, Dinah came to a stop before the minister just as a gust of wind picked up, blowing the train of her veil high behind her. Christine could have sworn that the brief fluttering of the gauze fabric looked like a pair of angel's wings stretching behind her, and she heard Joaquin's breath catch in his throat, as if he were stifling a sob. Tenderly, the boy reached for Dinah's gloved hands and took them in his own, giving them a careful squeeze before the two turned together to declare themselves wed before God and man alike.**

**Mrs. Dupres was nearly inconsolable with tears of joy once the youth raised Dinah's veil and took his new bride into his arms as the minister declared them man and wife. Once released of their bonds of propriety, the children frolicked freely about the farm, stealing sweets from Marta's reception table before returning to chasing chickens about the yard. Joaquin and Dinah, both having recovered surprisingly well, were positively beaming in the company of friends and family alike, and Christine was heartened to see Dinah and Joaquin's mother developing what appeared to be the beginning of a solid relationship.**

**As the evening drew to a close, Christine took Erik's hand and led him into the quiet of the fields, which had been turned to allow for a cold winter's rest. With the light and sound behind them, they faced the rising moon together and she squeezed his hand firmly.**

**"A magnificent day," she murmured, watching the darkness creep towards them from the horizon. "I see the benefactor's funds went to excellent use in recovering that barn." The tone of her voice was distinctly knowing, feeling at him to see if he would confess the secret she suspected and, truly, already knew in her heart.**

**"Investor," he corrected firmly but playfully, "not donor. From what I've seen this evening, I imagine the investor would be quite pleased."**

**Erik was startled briefly as Christine's slim arm found its way around his waist, leaning into his solid body for warmth. In the past months, she had been less timid about sharing his personal space, and he found (with growing surprise) that this did not bother him in the least. The feather-light touches, sidelong smiles, and occasional embraces that would once have driven him utterly mad with warring fear and desire were, instead, now taming a beastly part of his soul that he had written off a lifetime earlier as hopelessly lost.**

* * *

><p><strong><strong>**_"Poor, wretched woman." The child could hear the echoes of the physician's voice from down the hall._******

**_"It is done, then?" That was the nursemaid - he hated her desperately. She was old, fat, cruel and strict. When his mother was not around, the old hag would occasionally box him about the ears at the slightest of infractions. He would later fall into his mother's warm and loving embrace when she would return from her physician's visits, and beg for her protection. Buried against her bosom, he saw the pain her eyes as she murmured, "Mon petit chou, you know we cannot find another maid for the household. Let it pass like water through your fingers. Always know that I love you and will be here for you. My love for you will never die."_******

**_But she had lied, hadn't she? If she had truly loved him, she wouldn't have gotten sick. She wouldn't have left him alone, in the darkness._******

**_He was terrified of the dark._******

**_"What of the child, Madame? Will you..."_******

**_A short piggish laugh, akin to a chortle, from that rotund face. "I most certainly will not. What do you take me for, Monsieur, a rat-catcher?"_******

**_A heavy sigh from the aged physician - the same one who performed the exams his mother poured the family estate into once her husband left in shame of what they'd begat. The same physician who had known him since birth and who had tried to find a cure for the unfortunate and increasingly horrifying skin disorder on his face. Erik remembered their last visit, over a year ago, and the physician's sharp yelp of surprise as his mother unwrapped the scarf from the boy's head. The older gentleman hurriedly covered it again, proclaiming there was nothing more that could be done, and to not bring the boy back again._******

**_His mother, however, continued returning to the physician more and more often in the following months, and began going out less. She grew pale, weak, and gaut. Erik was concerned, but she assured him that she was fine, and the nursemaid was not someone he would go to for consolation - the one time he asked her what was wrong, the woman told him that his mother was dying because she had to care for him. Better she die than have to see her deformed son every day. When his mother was finally rendered bedridden, he spent most of his days curled up at her side and reading with her until the sun set and they both passed out as the night drew close._******

**_"You know he won't do well in the orphanage, Madame. There is no family to take him in."_******

**_"That's true," she acknowledged. There was a pause, and Erik had the keen sense that the two adults were both facing the door, considering him as he sat down the hall. "Then again, perhaps if we put him with his own kind, we could even come out the better for it."_******

**_"Madame?"_******

**_"I've heard the gypsies have gathered in the countryside and are peddling their wares. They have a show of... oddities, let's say... that the child would likely fit well in."_******

**_"You're not suggesting selling the child?!"_******

**_"You would rather he be placed in an orphanage, and doomed to a life of being tortured by his peers? Best he be with people who are used to those like him - the freaks and the devil-kissed of this world. You cannot tell me the home for children would be a better option."_******

**_Another pause, and another sigh. "No, I cannot."_******

**_"It is decided, then. Come, there's no time to waste. You take care of _****this****_, and I will handle the boy."_******

**_And handle it she did. Without a word to the frail boy, without any preparation or warning, and without allowing him to see his mother's face one last time, she grabbed him by one arm and dragged him forcibly from his home towards his dark destiny._**

* * *

><p><strong>Christine entered upon a familiar tableau - Erik reading quietly at night in the study, features barely lit by a small oil lamp nearby. In one hand, he held a leather-bound tome aloft to read, and in his free hand, he absentmindedly stroked the curls of the smallest of the household. Maria was securely bundled in the former Opera Ghost's lap, curled underneath a crocheted coverlet and dozing soundly where she lay. Upon seeing Christine enter, he put down the book.<strong>

**"Christine. I hope the light was not disturbing you." He tried to rise to greet her, and promptly sat back down as Maria murmured and shifted in his lap. Looking at the slumbering child and then at the young Soprano who stood in the doorway, he appeared conflicted. Christine chuckled softly and walked to his armchair, leaning over to gently sweep the locks from the child's forehead.**

**"No, I just found that I could not rest. I decided to check on the children, and saw that she was missing. I see she's found a new place to rest - hopefully it doesn't disturb you?"**

**Erik's brow knit together in a hint of confusion as he looked at the girl sleeping in his lap, and then he slowly shook his head. "No," he admitted, a bit sheepishly, "it's a bit comforting to have her here."**

**Christine smiled and knelt beside the chair, lightly running her fingertips through Maria's silken hair. "She trusts you," she murmured softly, not meeting his eyes, "they all do."**

**Erik sighed and shook his head, his eyes troubled. Christine took his hand instantly in hers and squeezed it firmly, reassuringly.**

**"No," she demanded. "Don't go there. Let that poor man die in the catacombs. Let this - all of this - be a rebirth, a second chance. You have a right to be loved, Erik. You must understand that."**

**His eyes turned towards hers, golden orbs clouded with uncertainty. "Christine, everything I've done..."**

**She rose up, taking both of his hands in hers, careful not to disturb the sleeping cherub between them. "...is in the past," she finished for him. "Let it stay there, let it die there, where it belongs. All of it. Fate is offering you a second chance, here, with us... with me." Again, her thin hands squeezed his with a strength that surprised him as she searched for an answer deep in his gaze. "Isn't that what you want? Isn't that what you've always wanted?"**

**Erik swallowed once and opened his mouth, unable to form an answer. He dropped his gaze and let it rest on the creature lying upon his lap, offering her full trust to him without a hint of judgement. Finally, he nodded. "I do."**

**She smiled. "Then join me in seeing that come to fruition, dear Maestro."**


End file.
